


Lion Heart

by northbound



Series: Little King [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beauty and the Beast AU, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Disabled Character, Friendship, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Wildly Historically Inaccurate, sociopaths in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-03 09:51:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13338723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northbound/pseuds/northbound
Summary: "Ivar had gotten used to playing the game of war with men like Aethelwulf, and the bishop, Heamund, who won their battles in blood. Ivar had made the mistake of thinking Alfred would wage war the same way. No, this battle would be fought in the mind, and Ivar would win."or,Ivar and Alfred start repeating their father's past mistakes and do an even worse job at it this time around.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate summary: When his mother, Judith, gets taken in an attack and held ransom by the Great Heathen Army the newly crowned king Alfred must make the only deal he knows will ensure her safe return from the hands of the men who destroyed their family during the course of the war. Alfred trades himself for her, and takes the place as a captive in the heathen camp, with the faith that if God does not save him, Wessex will carry on under his mother's leadership.  
> With Ivar determined to break the Saxon king who had bested him in battle and who has yet to prove afraid of him, the two men wage war against England and themselves.  
> I recommend reading part 1 of the series before this, but its not technically necessary- all you need to really know if Alfred has become King of Wessex after Athelwulf and Athelred died by Ivar's hand, and he and Ivar have now personally waged war against each other.  
> Anyway, I plan to be using canon us to like ep 3 season 5, and then i'm sorting of merging Alfred's story line with Heammunds and sort of making the rest up.

The Saxons were winning.

 

Ivar watched as his army returned in shambles to the viking camp that had slowly been pushed back towards the river bank in the past two months, trapping them between the Saxon army and their last chance of retreat.

Not that Ivar had any intentions of retreating. He’d rather die in battle than go back to Kattegat and Ubbe as a failure. Ivar rather die like Ragnar did than do that. Ivar would not lose this war, and while the Saxons' three consecutive victories were a surprising change of pace than the easy wins the vikings were used to, it did not mean that Ivar was defeated. He was far from that.

 

“What could have changed?” Hvitserk ducked his head to enter Ivar’s tent. There’s was blood splattered across his thin, sharp face, and dark circles under his eyes. Sleep had evaded the viking camp for the last week. Every night the Saxon army played a chorus of horns and drums throughout the night keeping the northmen awake, and waiting for the next attack. Surprise attacks to the outriders who guarded the perimeter of the camp had become a common thing since the boy king had taken command of the Saxon army.

 

Such tactics had become commonplace in the last month. It was a bitter surprise for Ivar to come to terms with. He’d not expected such things from the king who looked like some weak whelp the last time Ivar had seen him, still deep in grieving the deaths of both his false father, Athelwulf, and his pathetic brother, Aethelred. Ivar thought that the boy king would be holding his mother’s skirts still, but it didn’t seem the case. Ivar underestimated him. He could admit that much. He’d forgotten that the King Ecbert had taught this boy, Alfred, before his death, and even Ragnar had respected Ecbert for a time—had even been defeated by the dead king before.

Ivar was not like his father. He would not be defeated by any Saxon—he would not be outsmarted by these christians, or their boy king.

 

“Nothing has changed.” Ivar was staring at the map of the Saxon camp his spies had returned with. He grimaced at the markings on the pale leather, tracing a path with his eyes. He looked up at Hvitserk sharply. “Why would you think that something has changed?”

 

Hvitserk brow creased as he moved to sit on the chair across from Ivar, pausing slightly as he stared at his brother. “We are losing. The Saxons have us retreating to the water. Another month of this and they’ll have driven us into the sea. Even in battle—“

 

“There has been no battles.” Ivar interrupts sharply, holding a hand up wondering if he should slam his fist onto the table or into the next person who doubted him. Others had entered the tent, and Ivar eyed them as the came to move around the table and listen to what he had to say. They’ve got battle weary expressions. Anger and anguish written on their features along with the blood and bruises.

 

They used to look at Ivar like he was a god—now they look at him with doubt. They look at him like he’s just a cripple again. Ivar puts his hand down and digs his nails into his palm, harnessing control of the anger that threatens to spread across his face.

 

Ivar continued through gritted teeth, “There has been no battles, Hvitserk, because the Saxon king is a coward. All the saxons are cowards. They attack us and retreat and they burn the grain in the villages before we can get to them, and they keep us up at night with their moaning, but there have not been any real battles since that king has taken command.”

 

“Alfred.” Hvitserk nods his head and glances at the man beside him.

 

Ivar inclines his head slightly in agreement, “Yes, him. He knows he can’t beat us in open battle, thats why he has his army retreat every time we get near. He is a coward, he’s afraid.”

 

Knut scoffed, and Ivar looked up across the room at him and glared.

 

“If the king is so scared, then why is he winning? You say there haven’t been any battles, but you weren’t out in the field with the men today. When we tried to advance on the lines, they took us down. While you were hiding out in your tent, Ivar, I was saving our men from slaughter.”

 

There were some nods of agreement that rippled across the room, and Ivar felt his hand go to the knife on his belt. He stopped himself before he could reach it. Killing Knut would only end in dividing the camp even more. It would be like when he killed Sigurd all over again, only now it would not be on the tails of victory and celebration, but in the wake of defeat. Knut would pay for his cowardice words, but only after Ivar had reminded everyone that he was still their undefeated leader.

 

“You think I have been hiding, Knut? If you wanted to find me, I’ve been here the whole time, and unlike you, I haven’t been whining like some whelp about my misfortune.” Ivar leaned forward to say, before sitting back in his seat. “I didn’t send you out to the lines today for no reason—You’ve said that the Saxons have defeated us, but I don’t think this battle is over. I don’t even think its begun.”

 

“You have a plan?” Hvitserk sat up and looked relieved. He too must have sensed the growing tensions in the camp—half the army threatening to leave, the other half threatening to take Ivar out of power.

 

“You don’t think I had a plan? Of course, I had a plan. I always have a plan.” Ivar motioned to the map on his table indignantly. This got the attention of the room, and even Knut went silent to listen. Ivar watched them all carefully, moving a piece that sat over the map, taking it from the Saxon camp into the center of his own. Ivar felt powerful, seeing how quickly they became captive to his words. He looked at them and said, “We’re going to take their queen.”

 

Ivar had been thinking of this plan since the second defeat at the Saxon hands. Ivar knew that Hvitserk wasn’t completely wrong when he said that something in the Saxon army changed and Ivar knew exactly what the change was. Alfred’s new control over the Saxon army had lead to the multiple victories, and the new strategic tactics that the Saxons hadn’t used before. Alfred could do something that the last two Saxon kings couldn’t, he could wait. With the fast paced attacks and slowly starving the norsemen out, King Alfred seemed content to never take part in any real battle, rather he just planned on waiting until the norsemen were too exhausted and too weak to be of any threat and were forced to leave the kingdom.

It was a cowards strategy, but a smart one. Ivar had seen Alfred in battle before and he knew that the scrawny boy could barely hold up his own sword. He had no prowess in battle, of course that would not be the way the king would wage his war. However, Ivar did have other memories of the king that might better explain his strategies. Back when they were both just boys, Ivar had played chess with the child in Ecbert’s halls. What Alfred lacked in physical skill, he made up for in strategy. Ivar had gotten used to playing the game of war with men like Aethelwulf, and the bishop, Heamund, who won their battles in the field. Ivar had made the mistake of thinking Alfred would wage war the same way.

The plan Ivar thought of was simple. With this fourth battle won, the Saxons would spend their night celebrating, with the assumption that the norsemen would be retreating further to the sea and trying to reorganize their lost forces. In the night, when the Saxon men were drunk and unsuspecting, Ivar would send a portion of his army out into the field outside the Saxon camp and lay an outward attack on the mill that sat there where the Saxons kept their food and supplies. This would send the Saxons into a panic as they tried to defend the mill, with all their capable forces heading that way. With the main camp then undefended, Ivar would send a smaller unit into the heart of the camp to take the Queen Mother, Judith, from her tent and bring her back to Ivar’s camp.

The plan wasn’t meant to end the war—Ivar wasn’t done fighting yet. Instead, it was meant to end the Saxon King’s victories in one fell swoop.

 

“Why don’t I just kill the king?” Hvitserk asked when Ivar finished explaining his plan. He sat with one leg hiked up to his chest, arms draped around it as he held his knife. Hvitserk would be responsible for leading the unit who would sneak into the Saxon camp and steal the queen; Ivar would be leading the attack on the mill. “We already know that the king doesn’t lead his men into battle. He’ll be at the camp too. It would be just as easy too—“

 

“That isn’t the plan,” Ivar emphasized with a hiss, glaring at Hvitserk. If Ivar could lead the charge to take the queen he would, but his lack of mobility didn’t exactly make a task like that easy for him. Hvitserk would have to do. Still, Ivar couldn’t help but think that if Hvisterk screwed up the plan, Ivar would not be forgiving, especially if he ended up killing the king. No, Ivar would be the one to kill the boy king, and only after he had destroyed him in every other way first. “I don’t want to kill the King, I want to destroy him. Besides, if we kill him they’ll just find another man to put in charge. We take the Queen and the boy king won’t be thinking of any more clever plans to thwart us.”

 

“Maybe you’ll just make him angrier,” Hvitserk argued, and maybe they were both thinking of Ivar’s anger after his own mother was murdered, and the wars he’d wage on her behalf.

 

Ivar felt himself dim at the memory but shook his head. “We aren’t dealing with a man, we’re dealing with a child. We take his mother—his last family—he’ll do anything to get her back. We can ransom her for as much gold as we want, and then we can kill them all.”

 

Ivar thought back to that morning on the hill that had once sat between the Saxon and Norsemen’s camps. The memory reignited the anger in his belly. Ivar remembered agreeing to the peace negotiations back when the Saxons were loosing, having just lost their second king, back when they were desperate for relief and an end to the war. Ivar had no intentions of agreeing to peace then, but he thought it would be amusing to see what they had to say, and to see that Bishop Hammond, who hated Ivar so much, grovel for mercy. Ivar remembered seeing Alfred then, eyes red from mourning his father and brother’s deaths. Ivar remembered the head of the dead King Athelred that Ivar had sent to Alfred as a mock coronation gift the day before. Ivar remembered the way Alfred looked on Ivar with pity.

Unthinking, Ivar dug his hand in the cross that was wrapped around his wrist, the leather cord tightened and Ivar let go. Alfred had gifted the cross to Ivar, as if it was an equal exchange to the gift Ivar had given him. He had told Ivar that it was an awful thing to lose someone you love. 

The Boy King had told Ivar his greatest weakness that cold morning. The king loved too dearly. Ivar knew that the loss of his mother would destroy Alfred’s last resolve, it would win Ivar the war, and more importantly, it would teach the boy that Ivar was someone to be feared, not pitied.

In the middle of the night, the plan began.

 

Ivar lowered his helmet as he climbed onto his chariot and glanced at the men behind him. They were hidden in the woods on the outskirts of the Saxon camp and the mill with the supplies. Hvitserk would be on the other side of the woods, circling around to the back half of the camp where he would find the break in the defenses and sneak into the camp and take the queen when the battle was in fervent.

As Ivar lead the charge to the mill, the sounds of battle crying out among his men. Any doubt he had about his brother's capabilities, or the certainty of his plan faded to black when Ivar drew first blood. All doubt and fear faded away. He lost himself in battle and found the gods in his wake. When the Saxon blood sprayed his skin, he felt himself become one of them.

  
The Saxon blades couldn’t even touch him. Even without the chariot, Ivar was a match for any man when an ax was in his hands. It didn’t matter that his legs didn’t work, no man cared about that when Ivar was burying an ax deep into his chest. No one dared think of Ivar as weak when in came to battle, and after tonight, no one would ever doubt Ivar’s skills as a tactician and commander again.

The fighting never lasted long enough. The sound of a norse war horn broke through the fray and Ivar looked back in surprise to see the dim light break through the clouds, signaling the beginnings of daylight and the success of the plan. Ivar pulled his ax from a man’s chest and ordered his men to retreat. He took the reins of the horses and whipped them, heading towards the tree line, feeling a sense of smug satisfaction when he noticed that the Saxons didn’t try to chase after them. Even if Hvitserk hadn’t succeeded in taking the queen, the battle at the mill had been a norse success.

 Ivar rode that feeling of adrenaline until he made it to his camp. The spirits of the army were noticeably changed. Even with the losses they took at the mill, there seemed to be a universal feeling of excitement at their overall success. Men and women were calling for drinks, cheering _skol_ as they threw their heads back as they drank, and clapped each other on the back. Ivar allowed such celebration, though he ordered his generals to prepare outriders to look out for Saxon men for when they realized that the queen was missing.

  
The queen better had been missing.

Ivar looked around the camp for Hvitserk, using his brace and crutch as he moved from his chariot onto the ground and made his way to the prisoner tent Ivar had ordered to be prepared. He pushed the flap of the tent aside and was met with his brother’s back, Ivar shoved his shoulder aside and looked at the figure who was bound by the wrists and tied to the pole in the center of the small tent.

He felt the tension in his shoulders fade, as a satisfied smirk crossed his face as he saw the queen, recognizing her vaguely from all those years ago when they first met. She had aged well, still looking young, even with the few strands of grey in her unraveled braid and the creased wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and eyes. The dirt smeared across her face made her look even older, even more tired. She had a hardened expression on her face, and her grimace only grew deeper when she saw Ivar standing above her. She tilted her chin up, and Ivar caught the sight of blood trickling down her split lip, drying in the cold air.

 

“I thought I said not to harm her.” Ivar said to Hvitserk, though it was hard to sound all that mad while he was so satisfied at his plan’s success. This would silence the voices of treason in his camp, and when the Saxon armies came begging at the Heathen Army’s feet, no one would ever question Ivar again.

 

Hvitserk shrugged a shoulder, and for the first time, Ivar turned to get a good look at his brother. He laughed, face breaking into a manic smile as he saw the swollen lump that used to be Hvitserk’s nose. It was purple and red and recently broken. Hvitserk’s face went as red the blood on his face and he ducked his head, and squared his shoulders.

 

“She broke her binds the first time.” Hvitserk said, glaring at the queen who was watching both of the vikings intently.

 

Ivar turned his attention back to her, and watched the way she listened closely to their words. She couldn’t have spoken their language, and yet she was watching their mouths and studying the sounds as if she did, like she was looking for some sort of hint of what her fate would be.

 

“You fight better than your son.” Ivar said in the Saxon language, watching as Queen Judith took in a sharp breath and pressed her lips together, flinching slightly as she applied too much pressure on the split lip. “Maybe you should be the one leading the army.”

 

The queen said nothing, and Ivar felt his good mood threatened. The queen moved to sit back on her knees, her chin tilted up proudly. She did not look afraid, or even intimidated by the men before her. Ivar narrowed his eyes and used his crutch as he made his way deeper into the tent to face her.

 

“Do you remember me? We’ve met before.” Years ago, Ivar was still trying to remember his interaction with the then Princess. All he recalled was how she had watched as Ivar was loaded in a cart to be taken away from Ecbert’s castle and brought to the boats to be sent back home to Kattigat. She had looked younger back then, but of course, that had been before a war began, before her father, husband, and eldest son died. Back then she had watched Ivar with reserved sympathy, now she looked at him as a woman with very little left to lose.

 

“I remember.” She spoke in a steady voice, she kept a wary expression trained on Ivar, though occasionally her eyes flitted back to Hvitserk who stood a little behind him. She was uneasy, especially knowing Hvitserk was still in the tent. Maybe he had done more than just split her lip.

 

Ivar pressed his lips together and gave a low nod. He kept her fear of Hvitserk in the back of his head, as he pushed his crutch aside and moved to kneel down in front of her, very much aware of how his brace tried to restrict the movement. Ivar had no reason to terrify the queen just yet.

 

Maybe her being cooperative would even by useful—maybe he could use her to manipulate the Saxons in some way. Besides, watching the queen, even if she was afraid of Hvitserk, Ivar could tell that she would not give him the reactions of fear he was looking for. She had too much pride, or maybe she had too much dignity. Whatever it was Ivar bitterly realized that he recognized the same posture from her son Alfred, and Ivar knew that any mocking statements or threats he levied against her was going to be met with a steady indifference.

 

“That is good.” Ivar told her, as he came to sit at her level, maneuvering his legs so that they lay angled to the side. He held himself up right with one hand, leaning towards her. He might have asked Hvitserk to leave the tent, but he did like to keep that one threat in her line of vision. “All of those years ago it was I who was the prisoner and you in the position of power.”

 

The queen furrowed her brows and pushed her back firmly against the pole she was tied to, distancing herself from Ivar, though he could not tell if it was because she was afraid to be near him. She said, “All those years ago King Ecbert showed you mercy.”

 

“And you think I should show you mercy now?” Ivar asked, letting the idea stay in his head for a moment more. It was amusing, though he didn’t think that this is what the Queen meant by her comment. Either way, she didn’t answer and so Ivar continued speaking. “I always heard that King Ecbert was wise. Even my father, Ragnar Lothbrok respected him for a time. Do you think Ecbert was wise to have shown me mercy all those years ago?”

 

The Queen didn’t respond, instead, the expression on her face pinched unpleasantly, paling ever so slightly, proving that she may very well have been more afraid than she was attempting to appear. She must have been thinking that if Ecebert had really been wise he would have killed Ivar the moment he entered his halls, and at least then the heathen army never would have come to the Saxon shores, and Judith’s family would not have been torn to pieces, and she would not be tied up, at the mercy of the viking army. She must have realized that Ivar’s mercy was not like Ecbert’s at all.

 

“If you plan to kill me—“ She spat out quickly and Ivar waved her off.

 

“Kill you?” He shook his head, “No, no, I do not plan to kill you. What happens to you is up to your son.”

 

“Alfred.” Judith breathed, her face truly going pale now. For the first time she must have wondered if she was not the only Saxon stolen that night.

 

“Is safe.” He couldn’t help the mocking way the words came out. Hearing a mother’s concern for her son, brought a sickening feeling to Ivar’s chest as he thought that he no longer had any mother who would worry about him. Ivar continued, “I won’t kill him in this way. He’ll fight me in battle, just like the other kings did, and I’ll kill him just like the other two. But not yet, first he’ll do as I say if he wants his mother returned to his side.”

 

Judith gave a quiet scoff, looking down at the dirt she sat in. It was more out of disbelief than derision, and she gave a gentle shake of her head, “You overestimate my worth. The last you saw of my son, he might have been a boy, but it is not that way anymore. He’ll not sacrifice all of Wessex for me, and I’d rather die than have him try.”

 

There was steel in her voice, and when she finished speaking she was looking Ivar in the eyes, tongue laced with venom. Even so, there was a sliver of doubt in her words. She knew just as well as Ivar did that Judith was Alfred’s greatest weakness. If there was a chance of breaking the young and determined king of Wessex, Ivar had it in his grasp.

 

Ivar’s smile was sardonic, he tilted his head, watching as Judith struggled to keep her resolve, “I think its you who’s overestimating your son. But I suppose we’ll have to wait and see,” Ivar pushed himself back on his hand, reaching for his crutch to stand, and staggering towards the entrance of the tent, all the while watching Judith’s guarded expression, “If you are right though, and your son doesn’t raise a ransom for your return, I think we’ll find some other use for you. Hvitserk why don’t you watch the queen? I’ve a war to win.”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

It was the first time in a fortnight that the norse camp slept without the sounds of the Saxon horns blowing across the forest, keeping them awake. It had been even longer since the outriding parties and hunting expeditions returned with actual food for the camp, and their expedition raids came back successful. It had only been a week since Queen Judith had been captured, but already Ivar’s army was basking in the success her captivity had caused.

 

“Perhaps we’ll never give her back,” Hvitserk said as he lounged out by the fire, sitting close to a shield maiden he’d taken to, watching Ivar from across the fire, “It seems you were right. The Saxons have backed down. They haven’t sent an attack to out camp in days. Thorunn says she saw some of their riders out by the trees, but they ran with their tails between their legs when they caught sight of us coming at them.”

 

Ivar wasn’t nearly as pleased with this news as he could have been. It sat as a dissatisfied lump in his stomach—he had expected the boy king to have reached out word for a ransom of some sort by now, and yet no Saxon messenger dared come close to the heathen camp. Ivar wondered what the king was waiting for.

 Judith had continued to insist that Ivar was better off killing her, or returning her to her people. She said that Alfred would put his people first, and wouldn’t bow to the wills of the vikings. Ivar continued to ignore her. He had no reason to be certain, but part of him knew that Alfred could not be so callous when it came to the safety of his mother. Perhaps that was in part because Ivar knew that if their situations were reversed and his own mother was still alive, Ivar would have stopped at nothing to keep her safe.

 He wondered if that was his own weakness clouding his judgment now and that only made Ivar angrier. Angry that maybe the boy king, the weak guileless christian, had a strength where Ivar only had faults. Of course, If Ivar wanted to prove that this was not the case he knew how to motivate the little king into action.

 It was a surprise to see that one of Queen Judith’s ears was already missing. Ivar raised his eyebrows as he looked at the scarred flesh that must have healed years ago. He moved his hand from her hair, and sat back as she sneered at his touch, glaring at him lowly.

 

“How did a Queen lose an ear?” Ivar couldn’t help but ask, tilting his head to see that her second ear still very much existed.

 

Judith’s face heated, “I am not a queen anymore,” she said emphasizing, once again, her lack of importance as a hostage, “and I was not a queen when it was taken from me.”

 

That was not a real answer, but Ivar accepted it none the less. He cared little for the former queen. She was not like any Saxon women Ivar had encountered, and even though her presence had brought peace to the camp, many of the other norsemen found the queen unsettling. One of the men who had guarded her had said that she watches them as if she knew what they said about her when they spoke their own tongue, another said that it seemed that she knew their intentions even when they did not speak at all. Ivar had dismissed both men from guarding her, in favor of men who were not scared off by Saxon women with too much gall. It remained that Hvitserk was the only norsemen who truly seemed to agitate the queen, and even he preferred to stay away from the queen.

 

“Then I'll be kind and not take the other.” Ivar said moving away from her head and looking down at her hands, “Pick one.”

 

Her brow creased for a moment before her eyes widened in fear, “My hands?”

 

Ivar scoffed, “Your fingers. Pick the one you like the least to send to your son. Maybe then he’ll stop hiding behind his Saxon walls and come get you.”

 

Judith hardly relaxed at the clarification. She looked down at her left hand, spreading her fingers out as if deciding which she needed the least. Ivar respected that. She did not ever beg for mercy, or better treatment, she never tried to convince Ivar to show her mercy. The Queen accepted her fate with the dignity of a women with nothing to lose, or perhaps one who knew that her life was worth less than that of something else.

 

“You speak our language.” Ivar said to her, as he waited for her decision. He’d made the observation a while ago, though it was not one that had been confirmed. Alone in the tent though, he thought to test the theory.

 

The Queen grimaced, “No. Not very well at least. Not as well as you know mine.”

 

“Your husband taught you?” Ivar asked as Judith seemed to decide on the smallest finger at the end of her hand.

 

She shook her head, a wistful expression passing her face, “Alfred’s father.”

 

Ivar recalled that the two men were not the same person. He vaguely knew that the young king was the bastard son of a priest who had been a dear friend of Ragnor, one who had once lived among the norsemen for a time.

 

“This one.” Judith wiggled the smallest finger as she pressed her hand down in the dirt. Her wrists bore the marks of the ropes that used to tie her to the tent. Now there was only a rope around her ankle to keep her from running. “It won’t make a difference. You can send Alfred my head, but you won’t get what you want.”

 

“What is it that you think I want?” Ivar asked, voice light despite his rising irritation. The Queen was far more tolerable when she wasn’t spouting praise on her son’s behalf.

 

Judith had a stern look about her, a prideful one, “Not surrender, even I know that much. Men like you need war like others need god. What you want is the illusion of power and you think having my son beg for my release will give it to you. It might, for a time, but it will not last.”

 

Ivar felt the ripple of anger spread through his chest. “You’re wrong. And besides, I’ll get more than just power in trade for you. I want double the land Ecbert promised my father.”

 

This was one of the trade options that had been discussed regarding Judith’s release. Many of Ivar’s generals, especially those who had once served with Ragnar wanted the land they had once been promised back, and they didn’t want to wait for the end of this war to get it. The option was not Ivar’s favorite, it sounded too much like agreeing to a stalemate, but he could see the benefit, especially now when he wanted to prove that Judith’s capture had more to do with just an allusion of power as she had claimed.

 

“I very much doubt that that is what you want.”

 

Ivar took the sharpened knife from his belt and pulled it towards Judith’s hand and she fell silent, the taunt dying in her throat. She went stiff as the blade touched her thin flesh, shutting her eyes tightly, as Ivar went to hold her wrist to keep her hand still.

 He had the knife poised above her finger when the sound of the tent flap being pulled open interrupted Ivar’s thoughts.

 

“What—“

 

“It’s the Saxons.” The sheildmaiden Thorunn was out of breath, face red from running across camp in the cold, “They’ve come to the gate.”

 

Despite this meaning Judith got to keep her finger, she did not look relieved. The corners of her mouth went tight as Ivar quickly grabbed his crutch and pushed himself up to stand. The tension in his chest was gone, as he knew that he’d been right about the king. Now Ivar only wondered how much gold the little king would offer in return for his mother’s safety. Ivar wondered if maybe he should still take Judith’s finger to throw at the King’s face when he rejects the offer given.

 No, not yet. Ivar planned on drawing out the king’s torment for months. Even after the Saxon land was secured, Ivar would insist on keeping the queen to make sure the Saxon’s kept their promises, and after that Ivar would see what other things he could get the Saxons to agree to before he finally sent Alfred his mother’s head.

 

“Bind her hands.” Ivar told Thorunn, “Take her out to the gates, and keep her behind our lines. I want the Saxons to see her, but make sure that they wouldn’t be able to hear her if she shouts.” Ivar didn’t trust Judith not to say something that would only disrupt his plan. He could have her gagged, but Ivar didn’t want the Saxons to think he was mistreating the queen, not yet anyway.

 

Thorunn did as he said as Ivar turned around and start staggering from the tent and to the gate where the Saxon party would be waiting.

  
Ivar wondered who would be sent. Part of him truly hoped that it would be the bishop, who hated Ivar and the heathen army so much. It would make his begging for the Queen’s release satisfying, even more so when Ivar rejected the offer. Ivar would not be letting go of the Queen until he knew that the little king had reached desperation—that Ivar had broken him and won, and the norsemen knew that Ivar could destroy a man without ever having to fight them on the field. They needed that reminder as of late. Even now with the Saxons at bay and the gods in their favor, Ivar knew that some still questioned his leadership, especially after the several defeats they had faced so recently. Ivar hadn’t just taken the Queen for revenge, he’d taken her because he had something to still prove to the men.

Going to the gate took longer than Ivar had wished. His legs ached with the brace, and the crutch only helped so much at alleviating that pain. It didn’t help that so many of the norsemen were moving towards the gate, having heard the news of the Saxon party.

 Ivar barked at them to move aside as he came towards the wooden gate that surrounded their camp. He saw Hvitserk standing at the front along with one of the commanding shield maidens. They were both looking to the field across from their camp where the Saxon party waited, some ways away. Ivar joined them, resting a hand on the fence to keep balance as he looked forward and waited for his brother to tell him what he’d missed.

Though, as Ivar looked out into the clearing, the dry grass curling out under the feet of the Saxon steeds, who held three riders, Ivar found that no explanation would be enough for what he saw. What he had not predicted.

 

“That is the king, isn’t it?” Hvisterk said, his elbow nudging Ivar’s shoulder. He too had not looked away, but instead kept his eyes squinted to ignore the glare of the sun in his eyes, as he tried to be sure that he was truly seeing what he thought.

 

Ivar was certain that he was not wrong when he identified the king. He would have recognized the narrow pull of the king’s shoulders, the pale skin and dark circled eyes, and spindly limbs of the man anywhere. Ivar often dreamt of such things—of seeing the figure of the king on the battle field and finally killing him, finally winning.

  
He could not look away, and Ivar vaguely realized that he’d begun to laugh. Quietly, a laugh that was more disbelief than humor. The disbelief was not just because the king had surprised Ivar by showing up himself, but that he had appeared so utterly broken so quickly.

Perhaps the king had seen Ivar approach to from his place on the field atop his horse, but his eyes instead drifted to the growing crowd. His head tilted as he tried to identify a face in the masses, a pinched expression on his face, lips drawn together as he failed to find what he was looking for. His mother, Ivar thought, the boy king was looking for his mother. Ivar hoped that he found her, that Thorunn had brought the Queen out by now and that she was not too far out in the crowd that she would not be seen. Ivar wanted to see the look on the little king’s face when he saw the bruised and dirty skin of his dear mother.

 

“Ivar?” Hvisterk knocked his elbow into Ivar again and Ivar jerked his head towards his brother.

 

He growled, “What is it?”

 

Hvitserk took a step back, “I asked what you plan on saying to them? The men want to have food delivered to the camp first before we start any other bargaining.”

 

Ivar knew that already. That had been one of the things that they settled on for the ransom a while ago. Other than the sparse fish that got from the river on the other side of the camp, the norsemen hadn’t been able to get any other food, due to the mills the Saxons previously burned and the winter having dried up much of their other options. Ivar didn’t need Hvitserk to explain to him what he already knew.

 

“The priest is not with him.” The shield maiden beside Hvitserk said, addressing no one in particular. She had a hand on her belt where an ax hung, but without the bishop there they couldn’t expect a fight, not unless Alfred planned to have another group of Saxons to attack while the others were all gathered at the gate.

 

Ivar felt his back go rigid at the thought of a surprise attack, one so similar to the one Ivar had planned when he took the Queen. He’d been so excited about the presence of the king, that he hadn’t even considered this being a trap.

 

“Tell the men to man the perimeter of the camp.” Ivar ordered the shield maiden, “Be on guard. Tell Thorunn to keep a knife at the Queen’s throat.”

 

The shield maiden nodded, turning to deliver the orders. She shouted at the gathering crowd who began to hesitantly obey, not wanting to defy the order when Ivar was so near, but also not wanting to miss what was about to happen with the king.

Occasionally the king would turn towards the other two men who’d come with him, holding the reins of his horse like he planned on charging it towards the gate, but the other two always said something to him with a sharp draw of their mouths that held the little king back. Ivar found this fascinating, wondering what could have been said to keep the king from doing what he so clearly wanted.

 

“The perimeter is being guarded.” The shield maiden told Ivar when she returned a few minuets later.

 

Ivar nodded, and knocked the back of his hand against Hvitserk’s side before calling for the gate to be opened and making his way out.

  
It was about now that King Alfred must have caught sight of his mother, because Ivar watched the boy tense. Now it really did look like he would forget his companions all together and try to charge forward to get to her, but instead, that fleeting expression vanished and the king fell deadly still, as if his whole body was holding its breath, frozen and fragile.

He looked very much like he had that day on the hill when they two parties came to talk about the possibility of peace. As Ivar approached he could see the tired look in his eyes, he could see the remains of tears that must have fallen in the swollen red skin under his eyes. While the king looked so similar to that day on the hill he also looked so different. The king on the hill looked resigned to a war, resigned to death, resigned to the fate of dealing with his father and brother’s killer. The one Ivar saw now was a boy, terrified of loosing someone he loved once again. He was no king at all, just a scared child, and seeing him like this brought Ivar a sick sense of glee. The king broke so much more easily than Ivar had thought possible. At this rate, he’d offer Ivar the kingdom of Wessex for the life of his mother, and Ivar relished in the thought of turning him down. He wondered how much further he could make this king fall.

 When they’d drawn near enough King Alfred got down from his horse and took three long steps forward. Hvisterk’s hand went to the sword strapped on his back, and then the men behind the king went to do the same, but Ivar only smiled as he stood a stone’s throw from the king, able to look at him in the eyes.

King Alfred though, could hardly keep his eyes on Ivar’s eyes they danced from his and then back to the gate where his mother stood. Her arms would have been bound behind her, the collar of her dress torn to show the purple bruises on her skin, Thorunn’s knife would be at the pale long neck that she and Alfred shared. Ivar knew she would have looked proud, a woman made of stone, appearing unshattered for the benefit of her son, but that would have done nothing to comfort Alfred who’s hands were shaking.

 

“Have you hurt her?” Alfred spoke in one breath, as if his lungs could not dare hold the question in a moment more. His voice shook just like his hands, and while Ivar always imagined the king’s voice to be engulfed in fear in this moment, the traces of anger in his tone were undeniable. Not so broken after all. That was fine, Ivar had plenty of time.

 

Ivar pointed a finger to his chest, resting his other arm on the crutch. He feigned surprise, “You’re speaking to me?”

 

He wanted the young king to look at him as he spoke the desperate question, but Alfred’s eyes had not strayed from his mother’s.

When Ivar spoke though, Alfred did look. His mouth was half open, rough breath leaving his raw lips as he took in measured breaths to keep any sort of panic at bay, not that it seemed to help. He was an unraveling man. Ivar had pulled at the strings.

 One of the men who had been seated on a horse behind Alfred dismounted and stepped forward. He kept a hand on his sword belt. An open threat that amused Ivar who had come armed as well, though he needn’t put a hand on his weapon to remind these men how dangerous he was. The only weapon that mattered was the knife against Queen Judith’s throat and they all knew it.

 

“King Alfred has come to formally request the return of his mother, the dowager queen Judith.”

 

Ivar didn’t bother looking at the stiff old man speak. He must have been an advisor of one of the kings who’d come before Alfred, who had come to make sure the young king stayed in line and addressed the topics that were important. The safety of the king’s mother was less important than the negotiation for her return, something the young king would have known, but did not have the emotional control to target first.

Alfred had his weaknesses clearly on display for anyone to see. It was as if the vulnerability he showed did not bother him, as if he had not been taught to be ashamed of such boyish behavior, but Ivar did not think that was the case at all. The king did not have the capacity to control such vulnerabilities, not when he was faced with the scene Ivar had orchestrated. Alfred was a lit match, he’d burn himself down if those advisors were not present to stop him. Ivar wanted to watch him burn, he wanted to feed the flames, he wanted to hear that he was the one to light it.

 

Ivar finally looked at the old man who’d made the king’s request known. He pretended to consider the offer, “What do you have to offer for her return. Surely you do not expect such a thing like a queen for free? Do you Saxons value your women so little?”

 

The old man stepped forward again, this time to set a hand on Alfred’s shoulder to try and draw him back. The touch must have also been placed as a warning to the king, who had become disconnected from the conversation altogether, gaze lost as he stared at his mother as if he’d been trying to engage in a conversation with her from all the way across the field. The touch made the king recoil, his back stiffening as he looked to the old man with that vulnerability so clear on his face. Whoever the old man was, it was someone the king felt comfortable with, because when the king’s gaze shifted back to Ivar the vulnerability was gone.

That should not have bothered Ivar as much as it did, but he found himself grinding his teeth all the same, wondering if he needed to repeat his question to get a response from the Saxons. He could tell that something was being held back by all of them. Ivar was not the most feared thing on the field at the moment, he was not what kept the older Saxon men looking tense and wary, and neither was the knife at the queen’s throat. Alfred was the root of that look on them, he was the thing their apprehensions and careful words circled around and Ivar thought that he must need to remind the men that he was the one who held all the power. He was the one they all must be wary of now.

 

“Perhaps we’ll find more use for the queen in our camp than you would in yours,” Ivar mused, pleased to have regained the attention of all three Saxons, “At least we’ll find a man who would fuck the queen in ours.”

 

The look of fury returned to the king’s eyes, and that lit match would burn him from the inside. Now the old man was having to hold him back.

 

“You will not lay a hand—“

 

“The crown is willing to cease fighting with your army for the return of the queen,” The old man spoke quickly, voice loud and overpowering the young king who was resentfully coming to heel, though that anger never left his eyes, and Ivar kept the gaze with a smirk playing on his lips the entire time. Even so, the old man continued, unaware of the quiet battle between the two men, “Given, of course, that your heathen army vacates our lands."

 

Ivar looked up at that. It was hardly a good deal, though it was the first one that needed to be made before they acknowledged just how desperate the Saxon’s really were. “And why would I agree to that? I have a queen, an army, and the upper hand.”

 

The old man scoffed, “You do not. We’ve ceased attacks for this long, but if our queen is not returned then we will have no choice but to persist. Keep in mind that your camp is surrounded, boy. We know that your numbers dwindle by the day, that God is finally punishing you for your sins, and that he is on our side when we make the final blow to eradicate your kind from our land.”

 

Ivar turned to Hvitserk and asked, keeping the king in his peripheral all the while, “Was it their god that the queen screamed for in your tent last night?”

 

King Alfred lunged forward, he hadn’t even bothered to go to the sword at his belt, rather it looked like he planned on tackling Ivar to the ground. The old man was surprisingly fast though when he went to wrap his arm across Alfred’s chest and stopped him from getting any closer than he did. The king struggled for a moment, teeth bared as he locked his gaze with Ivar, who’s own grin had turned wicked, sharp like a blade.

 

“I swear to God,” The king growled, “If you have laid a hand on my mother—“ he shook his head, struggling with the old man still. His voice broke as he continued saying, “If you have hurt her—“

 

The second man had dismounted from his horse to help the old man get control of the king. This one, Alfred was less comfortable with and when the man put a rough hand on the king’s shoulder, he pushed it off and recoiled harshly. The king’s breath was coming out rough, his face had gone red. He too a step back and shut his eyes, and no one dared touch him.

Ivar continued to be fascinated by all of this. He wondered how the king would react to his own touch. Ivar wondered if he could wait for the battle field to find out. He wondered how long he would be able to draw out his death to see those dancing emotions play out of the king’s face. They never lasted long, not even now, as the King’s vulnerability and anger and anguish was sealed back by a blank expression, like those seen on a stone statue. Not calm, but not alive either. Ivar would say it was like the expression on a corpse, but that was not quite right.

 

“Is your king done?” Ivar asked, though this was more for the benefit of the other two men. Ivar’s mocking tone was meant for them, though for some reason he did not feel as if it should extend to the king himself. It didn’t matter, Ivar didn’t think the king was listening anymore. His eyes were looking at the ground, body retreating on himself, a very distant look on his face, almost like the one that had been there when he was looking at his mother. Ivar was suddenly put off by the vulnerability there and looked away. He didn’t know why this was either. He cleared his throat and looked at the other men, “You attack my camp and you’ll see what happens to your queen. Death will be a mercy compared to what I can do to her. You’ll stop your attacks for a fortnight, and have food delivered to my camp. Unskinned deer, and you’ll free up access to the village to the west and give it to us.”

 

“You couldn’t be serious?” The second man spoke, voice dripping with distain. He was not like the old man who sounded like a skilled politician, this one reminded Ivar of the bishop, with his hot anger and indignation, and hatred worn so obviously.

 

Ivar spoke over him, louder now as he continued, “And gold. The queen’s weight in worth. For a start, this at least will ensure her safety until other negotiations can be made.”

 

Beside him Hvitserk snickered at the two older Saxons shared a raw look of disbelief at the demands. They were outrageous, Ivar had framed them to be so, even though they were just the start of what his demands would continue to be. Ivar wanted to draw out the negotiations long enough to get all that he could from the king and Wessex, and truly push them to the limits of their own desperation. He knew that it would only go so far before they realized Ivar was only playing with them and had no intentions of returning the queen, and then they would have no other choice but declare war.

By the looks on the older men’s faces, Ivar was close to pushing them to their limits already, but as Ivar considered his demands before hand he thought of what he would have been willing to give for the safe return of his own mother. A difficult question to bare knowing his mother was already dead, and that if Ivar had ever been in this situation he would not have negotiated for her safety like these Saxons did, rather Ivar would have brutally slain whoever had dared to take her, and extract a slow revenge, but that was not their way here. Ivar thought if it had not been his way either, if he did not have the choice to fight, and if he was not the man he was, he would have done or given nearly anything for his mother’s safety. He thought Alfred would do the same.

 

“What you ask is absurd.” The second man said, his voice still held the same indignant disbelief as before, “You are asking us to pay a heathen army, to give up christian lands, for the return of a dowager queen?”

 

“Not her return,” Ivar tone remained dismissive, if only to bother the man more. He continued leaning against his crutch in a casual manner, as if to counter balance the rigid way the Saxon’s stood. Well, all but Alfred, who was standing a little away by the horses now, one hand on the bridle, as if trying to keep himself in place with none of the other men to hold him back. He was watching the conversation though, listening carefully, and Ivar thought he was the only one who noticed that the king was not the emotional mess he was minuets before anymore. It made Ivar want to put on a show, and he projected his voice so that the king could hear, “For her safety. If you want the queen back, we’ll need much more than what I requested, but it is a start.”

 

The second man shook his head, his voice was a growl as he spoke to the old man beside him, “He’ll ask for all the gold in Wessex before we ever get the queen back. He asks us to bankrupt our country for the return of a woman.”

 

The old man tried to silence the other, as he cleared his throat, “Surely you see that these demands extend far past what is reasonable to request.” he told Ivar, “I must remind you that while you may have a queen, she is only a dowager. We shall agree to pay the price of gold, and allow you to retreat back to your country, given her safe return, but that is the final price. You shall not be allowed to remain on Christian lands, and if you ever return it will mean war, and it will not fall in your favor. Take this deal now—return us Queen Judith and we will in return give you your lives, and the gold you ask.”

 

Ivar tilted his head as he appraised the deal. The other watched him carefully, the two men leaning in slightly to hear what his answer would be. Ivar hummed, shrugged a shoulder and with a curl of his lip said, “Then I think I shall keep the queen. For your price though, I will return the second ear on her head.”

 

The second man had worked himself up so that his face was red with anger and his chest puffed out. The old man had a wary brow as he realized that Ivar would not bend to their terms. It was the old man, who Ivar thought realized what this negotiation really was. He must have seen that the return of the queen was hopeless and that Ivar had no intentions of returning her, even if all her terms were met.

He was not the only one who must have realized this though. Ivar had momentarily forgotten that the little king was still listening. He’d been instead thinking of how he could get the other two saxons to agree to his terms for this time, wondering if he’d overplayed his hand, and that the old man would be the one to end the negotiations before Ivar even began to have his fun. Ivar hadn’t even thought of the king who’d been holding himself so still be the horses, who had also realized that his mother would not ever return to him, that there was not a price Alfred could pay that Ivar would have been satisfied taking for her return.

When Ivar realized this he felt himself hold back his own anger. He was now thinking how he might return to the camp empty handed after these negotiations, thwarted by his own overconfidence in these proceedings. If this was so, Ivar would have to find a way to appease his men who would see this all as a failure—who, unlike Ivar, wanted food and land, and not revenge. Ivar would have to speed up his plans, perhaps if he did take the queen’s second ear and give it to the king he’d become desperate enough to give into some of the demands if it meant delaying her death, but surely it was too late into convincing King Alfred that Ivar would ever return her alive. Now Ivar could only bargain with giving her a clean death, perhaps he could bargain with giving her a death altogether, and threaten to make her a thrall or some other thing that would insult these christian sensibilities. Perhaps Ivar could make the little king beg for his mother’s death then, and wasn’t that a rather satisfying thought.

 

“This is outrageous.” The second man said, shaking his head, “Wymond these heathens will hear no reason. I will not agree to bend to the wills of these men—a queen is only worth so much—“

 

“I agree,” Ivar told him, though he did not think he was meant to be a part of the conversation, “I shall let you think my offer over. Come tomorrow, I will have a gift for you,” his eyes flashed to Alfred who had fallen still again at this word, no doubt remembering the last gift of his brother Aethelred’s head. Ivar gave a sharp smile, turning back to the others, “Perhaps that will motivate you to follow your christian duty. Until then, Hvitserk will keep your queen company.”

 

Hvitserk, for his part, gave a rather devilish expression to this addition. A dark smile on his face as he, no doubt, was imagining the queen. Ivar wished he could role his eyes at his brother’s enthusiasm. He had no intentions of giving Queen Judith over to Hvitserk, even with his threats. There was no reason to, the Saxon’s would never know if he was telling the truth, and the pieces of the queen he’d send to them would convince them of everything they needed to know anyway.

This was the second time that Ivar had forgotten about the king. He’d been thinking of his brother and his plans, and how today he might return to his people with nothing, tomorrow he expected that the Saxons would come back agreeing to his terms. While thinking this, he didn’t notice what the king had been doing until he saw him stepping away from the horses and coming back to the center.

 The movement was so unexpected that Hvitserk almost went to his sword again. The old man put his hand flat on the king’s chest to try and hold him back, and while the boy stopped when he was touched he did not look reined in by the contact anymore.

 

“Your grace—“ the old man said quietly in a warning and that look was back on his face, the wary one that told Ivar that he was once again, he was not the most feared thing in the field. It did not anger him so much this time, rather, it intrigued him. He watched the king with sharp eyes, like one watched a snake.

 

The king turned his head towards the old man and spoke so quietly that Ivar could not overhear, he only caught the last part, “—I would rather die than see that happen—“

 

Ivar raised an eyebrow, pursing his lips slightly as he considered what this meant. Maybe he would not return empty handed after all. Maybe the king saw what Ivar had planned, but was still desperate enough to go along with it anyway. Ivar did not know if he found that pleasing, or disappointing. While it meant returning to a camp with the praise of getting everything he wanted in the negotiations, it would also mean that Ivar had won it in an unsatisfying way. He had wanted the king desperate, but not like this. Ivar could not quite say what he would have preferred, of why he was so disappointed in the thought that the king would give into Ivar’s demands, despite knowing it was a lie. By all accounts that was exactly what Ivar wanted, and yet, it left a dry taste in Ivar’s mouth, like a game unfairly won.

 

“This is madness!” The old man hissed to the king, turning to face him as he held his hands against his chest, holding him in place, “Wessex needs its king!”

 

Alfred only shook his head, face brimming with frustration and pulled tight with worry. He pushed an arm against the old man, leaving the other two grasping at the sleeves of his jacket. He looked at Ivar in the eyes, which were drawn tight, creased in the middle. He may have looked like a little boy before, broken from the kidnapping of his mother, desperate and unrestrained, and raw with emotions, and perhaps he was still all those things, but he was also something more now and Ivar did not know what it was until the king spoke.

 

“Its clear that there is no price high enough to guarantee the return of my mother,” King Alfred’s voice did not shake, though he spoke quickly as if to not lose what nerve he had or be silenced by the men hissing behind him. “Instead I propose a change in captives,” this once again was said so quickly that Ivar hardly had time to analyze what exactly it could have meant, but the boy king was quick to make his intentions very clear. The boy took in a breath, hands becoming fists where they hung at his sides. For a moment he had glanced at his mother, far off behind the gate with the knife at her throat, but then they were back on Ivar, steady and with the sharp gaze of a tactician who had realized this was his only move. “Myself for her.”

 

The men in the field went silent. Hvitserk gave a sharp laugh, glancing at Ivar and wondering why he didn’t do the same. It broke the silence and the two saxons were hissing at their king, shouting things at Ivar and trying to pull the boy back to the horses where he could do no more damage. King Alfred held still though, and so did Ivar, and neither had looked away from each other.

Ivar waited to see the doubt flash across the king’s face. He waited for the regret, or the vulnerability, or anger, or desperation, or any of the things Ivar expected t see from a king who’d trade his crown for the life of a woman. He saw nothing though, as Alfred was that stone statue again, fierce determination on his face and completely still except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the only sign that he was anything but a man in control of the world.

 

“You’re serious?” Ivar asked, lifting a brow and watching the king for the signs of him recognizing what he’d just done.

 

Alfred gave a stiff nod. His hands were still clenched into fists, and they only grew tighter as he spoke. His nails must have been digging into his flesh, too soft to have gained callouses. “Yes. If you return Queen Judith to my men this day, I will take her place as the captive in your camp.”

 

Ivar hardly believed what he heard, and he, like the Saxon men, wanted to question the king and hear him take back such an offer. It was such a reckless offer, uncalculated, idiotic, so very different from anything Ivar had expected hear and yet so so tempting.

 It would not please most of the men in the camp. A king was a high ransom, but it was not the food or land Ivar promised them he would return with. Ivar though, could not refuse it. Besides, while the saxons may not agree to Ivar’s terms for the life of a queen, they would agree to anything for the life of their little king. King Alfred had just given Ivar the war. He’d given him the country, all the riches in it, and himself.

Ivar could keep this war going for a century with this offer. He could continue being a god, a legend, for a millennia among his people. He could make the king regret his offer, regret his weakness, regret ever having the opportunity to trade his life for his mothers. He could make the king regret ever thinking he could beat Ivar, ever thinking he could pity Ivar. And knowing this, Ivar also thought that none of it mattered. He’d won today, and the king he meant to slay had instead offered himself up for the slaughter willingly. Ivar did not think a single thought before finding his answer.

 

“Your grace, this is ridiculous. We will not allow—“

 

“Yes.” Ivar saw the King’s eyes flash with something, and if the king was smart it would have been fear. The words dripped from Ivar’s lips, his excitement of winning so ultimately unbearable, “I agree to this deal. Your life for hers.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay on this chapter. Schools been busy, i'll try to update more frequently from now on (once a week). I hope you guys like this chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

It was the third day of King Alfred’s time in the heathen camp that interested Ivar the most. It was the first day that Ivar was finally able to visit him, as the others had been rather occupied with meetings in his own tent with his commanders and brother, and then there had been the skirmish that had taken place as the Saxons (a small band of them) had attempted to take back their king, only to be quickly thwarted. So it was the third day then that Ivar had been waiting for, though this was not something he actively acknowledged, rather it was something he felt in his blood. The anticipation for something he could quite place, the moment of victory for a war that had just begun.

When Alfred had been taken to the camp it came with the condition between the two men that Alfred got to speak to his mother. It was implied that this meeting would be in private, and Ivar, still high off of this unexpected victory, did not go back on this deal when Alfred had left the sides of his Saxon men and stepped foot in the northmen camp.

 Before entering, Alfred had taken off the crown he’d worn and handed it to the old man. Ivar walked ahead of them to the camp, as Hvitserk lead Alfred forward. There was no need to tie his hands, only to remove the sword on his belt, which Hvitserk got to keep.

When Alfred entered the camp he walked clear past Ivar, dodging Hvitserk as he tried to make a grab at the young king and crossed the ground to his mother. Ivar waved a hand at Thorunn who hesitated before dropping the knife at the Queen’s throat and stepped back to allow the boy and his mother to reunite.

  
The queen still had her hands bound, but Alfred wrapped his arms around her and hurried his face in her hair. It was clear that he was whispering something to her, and the queen, despite her obvious happiness at being reunited from her son, held herself with an heir of hesitation. She knew that her son had done something awful to have been allowed in the camp. She knew that it was wrong that he’d come along and without a weapon, and yet as her son hugged her and spoke into her ear, she could not quite gather her wits enough to place her fear in the open air.

Ivar ordered Thorunn to cut the ties on the queen’s hands, and then had her take the two Saxons to a tent. They would be watched, of course, but at a distance. Ivar ended up watching them at a distance, though he meant to have been arranging things with Hvitserk about what this new development meant. Instead, Ivar was standing outside the tent, listening carefully to the voices of the queen and little king as they argued with each other.

Most of the men were still manning guard around the camp, which made for less people roaming about the interior where the tent was. It made it easier to listen without the voices of the men, or the celebrations that would undoubtedly happen when they realized who their new captive was. It made it easier to listen to the Saxon voices, and as Ivar listened he wished he could get closer and see, but he stayed off to the side of the tent flap, leaning against his crutch as he strained his ears.

 

“You will take it back.” Queen Judith’s voice left no room for negotiation. She sounded nothing like she did when she and Ivar would speak. The cold heir of superiority was gone, and instead, she sounded like a mother, not speaking to a king, but to her child. “You will not do this. I will not allow it.”

 

“It’s already done, mother.” Alfred’s voice was more quiet, though no less determined. He would uphold the deal, his voice was resigned to the fate. “Please don’t cry—“

 

“What will happen to your kingdom? Alfred, you have not thought of this at all. You can’t do this, you are king. You have to think about your people, your army, what will they do without you?”

 

“I have thought about this. This is all I’ve thought about.” And Alfred’s voice sounded so raw that Ivar knew it was true. This was not a decision made in a moment of reckless abandon,. This was something the little king had been considering, probably in the far recesses of his mind, ever since the queen was taken. “Wessex doesn’t need me. You can rule in my place. I’ve told Wymond so, he’ll back your claim.”

 

“Me?” The queen’s voice was shrill and indignant, “I am not the country’s king.”

 

“You’ll do better than me at it,” Alfred said, and then his voice dropped, a desperate plea, “Mother, I could not let them keep you here. If you died, I couldn’t—“

 

“And what if you die.” And now Ivar could hear the desperation in the Queen’s voice, “I can’t take that again, Alfred, not again. Did you even think about that? I can’t lose another child, not you.”

 

There was a long silence and the wind picked up and Ivar again wished he could see what was happening, wondered what quiet words he could have been missing.

 

“Have they hurt you?” It was Alfred’s voice, quiet, but Ivar could just make it out. He knew he must have missed some part of conversation that happened before this.

 

A pause, which meant the queen must have shaken her head, “Not much. They told you otherwise, didn’t they? These men lie, Alfred, you shouldn’t have believed them. Now you must listen to me—”

 

Again the wind picked up again and Ivar missed what the queen said. He growled and took a step back from the tent. He’d given the two of them long enough and he barked at Thorunn who stood at the front of the tent to go and separate them.

The queen was pulled from the tent, her arm extended like she tried to grab onto Alfred before being pulled away. King Alfred took a step out of the tent to follow, but Ivar had one of the men near by restrain him. Ivar ordered the man in their own tongue to tie the king’s hands and have him put in the tent like his mother had been before. Ivar watched the young king’s confused face as he tried to follow the order Ivar give, unable to understand the language like his mother had been able to. Ivar had wanted to go into the tent to speak to the King, well to taunt him on the victory, to make the king not only confused, but afraid, but across the way, Hvitserk called Ivar’s name and Ivar went and would not see the king again until the third day.

The fighting the night before against the small band of Saxon men, lead by the bishop, had not been fought with the full force of the Saxon army, which meant the camp was divided. Ivar imagined half were waiting to hear Ivar’s ransom demands and the other half wanted to take the king back by force. Ivar thought that he should have sent one of the king’s fingers back to the Saxon camp, as a warning of what might happen if they tried to attack the norsemen again, which is how he found himself going to the tent King Alfred was being held at.

 

The tent was different than the one Ivar had placed the queen in. It was more towards the center of their camp, closer to where the other prisoners or slaves were kept. At the center of the camp, it meant that the area was always loud, making it difficult to find peace. The placement also meant that the whole army would pass by the king’s tent at least once during the day, during which they would hurl insults or taunts, or other abuses they found amusing.

Ivar had made a show of the king being lead to the tent on the first day. It was made to seem like a great victory for the heathen army, though Ivar felt it was less of a victory as time passed. Even so, he needed his men to still think it was, and while the Saxon king hadn’t been taken in battle, the shameful surrender was still something to make the men excited.  
That first day as the king was pulled by his wrists to the tent, shoulders hunched and head low as they army screamed taunts at him and threw rocks or whatever stray trash they found at his narrow frame, Ivar watched from a distance. It was about then that he started to feel as if the capture was no victory at all. It made Ivar’s skin itch for the opportunity to gain a real victory over the little king, one Ivar took himself, not one given in surrender.

 

Hvitserk had performed the sacrifice that evening, to thank the gods for the good luck they’d brought. A little later cart of unskinned deer arrived near the camp and everyone knew it was from the Saxons, some sort of insurance that said they would comply to Ivar’s demands if it meant they might get their king back. The camp celebrated that night, but Ivar went to his tent, a bittersweet feeling stuck in his throat. He planned.

On the third day, as Ivar walked the camp, he spoke to the shield maiden who was with him, telling her that she should lead the attack on the town across the river some ways and taken what she could. It was a test for the Saxons, to see how much the northmen could get away with now that they had the king. Ivar anticipated its success, but he still told the shield maiden to be careful. Their forces were still recovering from the months of defeats and they needed time before they were ready for any battles larger than the one the bishop tried to lay against them the night before.

It was then that the shield maiden asked what would be done about the attack. She asked what many others had to be thinking and that was how to be sure that the Saxons wouldn’t raise a larger attack against them soon, one that the norsemen were not prepared to win. Ivar thought about what she said for a moment, before saying that he already knew what had to be done. He felt the rush of excitement in his blood as he turned his direction to the center of the camp, to the king’s tent.

The king was in a very similar position to that of his mother before him. His hands were bound in front of him, kept slightly aloft by a rope tied around his wrists and then to the top, middle pole of the tent, which kept his arms lifted up slightly so that he could not lay down, rather he would need to kneel, which still meant his arms wrists hung somewhat level to his chest, or he would need to stand if he wanted them to hang near his sides comfortably. The only way to sleep would be with your back against the tent pole, and even then you would still have your arms raised, making rest impossible.

Some light came in through the half open tent flap, and then a little more through the hole at the top of the tent, where a ray of yellow light filtered into what was a mostly darkened space. Shadows danced on the walls, where it was dark, and where it was light, one had to squint their eyes to see properly.

 

It was midday and the center of the camp was unusually inactive. The novelty of having the king in their camp had dimmed slightly, and while Ivar was certain everyone made their anger to the attack yesterday known to the king, this afternoon everyone would have been resting. The king was resting too, or trying to. His eyes were closed as he sat kneeling in the dirt, body drifting to the side, though not really asleep. Ivar stood at the mouth of the tent and took a moment to stare. He meant to have been thinking of what he planned to say, what he planned to do, whether he take a finger or an ear like the queen’s, but instead Ivar found his mind drifting.

 

The king was half lit in the sunlight from the break at the top of the tent, the other half coated in dark shadows. Even in three days, the king still had gotten dirty, and what had been clean clothes before now was coated in dust and dirt, and the same was with most of his skin. Ivar could still make out what was bruises though, noticing the yellowing mark on the king’s collar, and another on the side of his face, beside his left eye, which caught the light. His wrists were bruised and red, raw from where the ropes kept rubbing as the ropes pulled against his weight. In the quiet, in the light and the dark, Ivar had forgotten his purpose completely.

A voice roused Ivar as someone walked behind him, speaking to a friend. The king still had not noticed his presence and so Ivar took that as his opportunity to push the flap of the tent aside loudly and step forward.

 

“Well, if it isn’t our Little King.”

 

Alfred’s body seized for a moment as his eyes flew open and he swayed back, only kept upright by the ropes pulled taut at his wrists. His gaze scrambled as he got his bearings, but they soon found Ivar, and whatever emotions they held before vanished, only to be replaced with a hardened gaze of distrust.

 Ivar smiled, using his crutch to get further into the tent, allowing the flap to close behind him. His legs ached, as did his shoulder where the crutch was perched under, but Ivar made himself continue to stand, if only for a while longer. He wanted to enjoy seeing the Saxon king on his knees in front of him. Such advantages were not something Ivar was used to.  
From this angle Ivar could get a better look at the bruises on the young king’s body. He could see the dark circles under his eyes from the lack of rest, and he could see the chapped skin on the king’s lips from being withheld drink. The king looked up at Ivar, and there was defiance in the gaze. Ivar’s blood was set ablaze.

 

“Sleep well?” Ivar asked, watching the anger in the king’s eyes burn bright. Still defiance, Ivar didn’t understand it. On his knees, covered in dirt, and piss, and blood, and the little king still held that regality. It was the same poise as his mother, but the anger there was different. Queen Judith hadn’t been defiant, this boy was.

 

The boy said nothing to Ivar’s question and so Ivar reached forward and yanked at the rope holding his arms and watched as the king hissed, eyes squeezed shut as his arms strained, shoulders not doubt burning. Ivar stepped back and asked again.

 

“Fine.” The boy hissed, pulling himself back to rest against the tent pole, “I have been fine.”

 

The answer was hardly satisfactory, and Ivar was reminded how this very much did not feel like the victory he thought it would be. His men were happy, their faith in him had been restored, but the revenge Ivar had planned to extract against the king fell cold.

 

“Your bishop attacked my camp last night.” Ivar told him, his own voice cold and threatening.

 

The king tried to repossession himself on his knees, trying to find an angle where his arms weren't so strained. He barely looked at Ivar, his voice came out strained, “So I heard.”  
Ivar wondered if he had heard the actual attack the night before, or if it was the men in the camp who made the event known. Ivar wondered which of the bruises painting the little king’s body were new. Ivar felt angry that he had yet to be responsible for one of them when this was his revenge which was meant to be taking place.

 

“That was not apart of the deal,” Ivar said and he let himself rest against his crutch as he went to the knife on his belt, pulling it out and letting the metal glint rays of color in the light above them. He noticed that Alfred had barely reacted to the presence of the blade, and instead was blinking his eyes, a crease laying between them, “Two of my men died last night.”

 

The king took in a shaky breath and Ivar had the distinct feeling that he had not been heard, or perhaps he had not been listened to. The king was drifting to the side, eyes straining to stay open.

Ivar realized that the king was in no position to be enjoyably threatened, which was rather inconvenient as it seemed the first time in three days that Ivar got to see him—that Ivar was finally able to claim some sort of victory—and the king was falling asleep.

Ivar growled as he jammed the knife back in his belt and staggered towards where the ropes were tied at the other side of the tent. He worked at loosening the knot and then let the rope fall enough so that the king’s arm soon collapsed to his lap, and the king let out a gasp as he fell to his side and onto the ground. Ivar retied the rope, now at the less severe length, and then went to the front of the tent where a stool and a bucket of water sat. He picked up the bucket and the water sloshed around, spilling over the side as he made his way back to the center of the tent. When Ivar dropped the water down in front of the king right in his eye line. The water that spilled from side when it was set down, splashed the boys face, but other than wrinkling his brow, the king barely reacted, though he had to be thirsty.

Bitterly satisfied, Ivar lowered himself down onto the dirt floor, letting his crutch fall beside him. There was no reason to stand when he couldn’t even enjoy the reactions he would get from the king. Even now, the king was only curling in on himself somewhat, arms pushed to his chest and eyes shut. Ivar reached forward and slapped his open hand against the side of the king’s face, feeling the water that had spilled on him.

 

“Drink.” Ivar ordered him.

 

The king furrowed his brow and seemed to take in several breaths, but Ivar could see that he was indeed trying to obey the order. When the king attempted to push himself up by his bound arms, he let out a sharp gasp and fell forward again.  
Ivar felt his lips curl in disgust. The king continued to lay on his side in the dirt, his arms clearly aching after having held him up for the past three days with little rest. Ivar wondered how he had lost any battles to such a weak man, but then the king had never fought in any of those battles, though Ivar knew clearly it was because of him that any of them were successful.

 

“Get up,” Ivar slapped the side of the king’s face again, and the boy barely reacted to the touch. Ivar wondered if he should hit harder next time.

 

“I can’t.” The king breathed, voice stubborn despite the pain in it.

 

Ivar growled, wanting to tell the other man to stop being such a bitch, but Ivar didn’t think the man would care even if he did. Ivar would get no revenge though if the king died, possibly worse, if the king died the Saxon army would attack again and this time they would not hold back and Ivar’s army had not yet regained their strength for such an attack.  
Briefly Ivar considered pushed the water bucket over and letting it flood the other boy’s face. As he leaned forward, that was what Ivar intended to do, but instead his hand found its way to the ladle that drifted in the bucket and Ivar reached for that, scooping it full of water and leaning forward to extend it towards the boy king’s mouth.

 

“Drink.” Ivar’s voice commanded harshly and the king obeyed, pulling himself up just enough so that the contents of the ladle didn’t spill totally down the front of his chest, though much of it did and it tricked down his collar bones before being soaked up by his blood stained shirt.

 

Ivar set the ladle back into the bucket and sat back, resting on his hands. He took the moment where the king kept his eyes closed and where the only noise was the quiet, slightly strained rise and fall of his chest, and the distant voices outside the tent, and Ivar let himself stretch his aching legs. The brace dug into his skin, even through the thick fabric of his trousers, and while his legs were wholly useless, they still managed to find discomfort when Ivar spent the day on his feet. It almost made him miss the days when the brace was not an option at all and Ivar crawled everywhere. Almost.

 

“Why are you here?”

 

Ivar looked sharply at the king, caught off guard by his strained voice, as if speaking was almost too much effort. The king’s eyes were still closed though, and so Ivar felt himself relax again, having not been caught drifting in his thoughts.

 

“Don’t you know?” Ivar asked letting the mocking tone return to his voice, the tone he used when he wanted to make everyone else feel like a fool and remind them why he was their true and only leader.

 

The king cringed as he tried again to use his arms to push himself up. He was successful this time, though it looked to cause him great pain, and the king let his back thud against the tent pale so that he now sat upright, his hands falling to his lap.

 

“The attack.” the boy king told him, letting his eyes open when it was obvious he wished he could keep them closed. He was trying to look like a king again, Ivar thought, trying to regain that dignity he had lost when he’d been curled on the ground, being fed water by the hands of his captor. Even then Ivar did not think the man was without dignity, it frustratingly stuck to him like a shadow, one Ivar wished to rip off him. The king continued to speak, the words coming to him like he was trying to refresh his own memory and provide personal clarity to the situation, “You’ve come because of the attack. Revenge, I imagine.”

 

“Very good.” Ivar tone held the praise one might have for a dog, and it put a sour look on the king’s face, “I’ll reward you for that then and let you pick.”

 

“Pick?” the king furrowed his brow again and then the realization hit him, though it did so with a dull sort of reaction, as if the realization hadn’t been so important at all, “Oh, yes, that is what you do, isn’t it? You said you would send me mother’s ear. That’s what you want then, for me to pick, which ear I like less and let you send it off so that my army knows not to challenge you again? Very well, the left, I suppose.”

 

The complete disregard, the complete lack of reaction all together left Ivar feeling frozen. His hand had gone to the knife again, but it fell still as he watched the boy king with a scrutinizing gaze as if waiting for a trap to fall into place. None came and instead the king tilted his head, revealing the pale curve of his bruised neck, allowing Ivar to come closer and cut the least favored ear.

The frustration that Ivar had been feeling off and on for the last few days returned at full force. He snapped forward and grabbed a handful of the king’s black hair and clenched it tight in his fist, pulling the king’s head sharply to the side and pressing the steel of the knife against the skin behind the ear. The king’s face tightened, though that would have been from the discomfort of Ivar pulling his hair and not the knife that was poised to slice his left ear from his head.

  
The king let out a bated breath. At the angle Ivar was holding him at, the king’s face was hovering near the ground, close to Ivar’s thigh. Ivar glanced down at him, seeing that the king had his eyes closed again.

 

“Do you plan to slice it soon?” The king’s voice startled Ivar and his hand tightened its grip on the king’s hair. The creases near the king’s eyes tightened, but he kept them closed.

 

“Why this ear?” Ivar asked suddenly, wondering why he found himself delaying the cut. He knew it would feel unsatisfying, half the reason he thought of taking some part of the king off was because he had wanted to see the fear in the king’s eyes and now Ivar saw no fear, and with his lids closed, Ivar couldn’t even see the king’s eyes.

 

The king attempted to adjust his position, uncomfortable with his body forced to hunch over and his weight resting on his knees. “It has to be one of them, doesn’t it?”

 

“You answered quickly,” Ivar remembered how the king hadn’t even given it a second of thought before calling for the left to be cut off. There must have been a reason behind it. Ivar knew that King Alfred was no fighter, but he was certainly calculated. Ivar did not think his decisions were ever random. “You already knew which should go.”

 

The king did not answer, and so Ivar pulled the hair again and gave him a shake. The boy cringed, teeth bared. “Why does it matter? Cut it off or don’t. The significance of one ear or the other has no bearing on the matter.”

 

And just as the boy king had shown his weakness to Ivar that day on the hill, he showed it again now. A slow smiled crept up on Ivar’s face as he moved the knife, setting it carefully on the ground, and then brought the free hand back up towards the ear. Moving his fingers together, Ivar snapped. The boy did not flinch, nor move a muscle, despite the noise having been unexpected as the boy still had his eyes closed and face pushed towards the dirt. Ivar snapped again to be sure.

 

“You can not hear.”

 

“I hear you just fine.” The boy king’s tone came out aggressive, laced with frustration and bitterness.

 

Ivar tapped the shell of the boy’s ear with a finger, “Not out of this ear, you can’t.”

 

The boy flinched from the touch. He pressed his lips together, and when Ivar let his hold on his hair slacken, he sat up. He did not look at Ivar, though not from wanting to avoid the gaze out of something like shame. The king looked bitter, and as he stared at the dark wall of the tent, Ivar imagined that the boy king was looking at something else. It was the sort of moment where Ivar wondered if the king was drifting out of consciousness again, or if it was something else all together.

 

“Will you cut the other one then?”

 

Ivar shook his head, not that the king was looking to see. “Its the same as your mother’s.”

 

Ivar did not know why he thought to mention this. It was not a detail that mattered, but as Ivar stared at the king, he remembered the Queen’s missing ear and then remembered it had been her left one too.

 

“Yes, I know.”

 

“Not a fighter, and a cripple,” Ivar remarked, though calling something like a deaf ear a cripple didn’t feel right to himself, he only thought the remark would provoke a reaction from the king. “Pity for your father. Lucky he is dead and doesn’t have to see what a pathetic shit you turned out to be.”

 

That bitter look on the king’s face only became fiercer, even despite his exhaustion. He looked away from the spot against the tent he’d been staring at and turned to Ivar. “The same goes for yours.”

 

The insult hadn’t been expected. Nothing King Alfred said was something Ivar expected, but this hit him especially hard. The words didn’t even sound like something Ivar imagined the boy king saying, and he didn’t even think before he’d picked up the knife and flipped it so that the dull metal hilt slammed into the king’s temple.

King Alfred let out a breath as he head snapped to the side, a dark mark already forming where the hilt hit him. Ivar gave him no time to recover before he had grabbed a handful of the king’s hair again and pulled it so that the king was forced to stare into Ivar’s eyes.

 

“Say that to me again.” Ivar spat, breath coming out in sharp growls, “Say it and see what I do to you.”

 

And Ivar thought that this was the first time he saw fear in the young king’s face. It was not as sweet as Ivar thought it would be, it once again, did not feel right. This, as taking the king captive had been, was no victory.

Ivar let go of his hair and the king’s head fell back against the tent pole. They both sat like that for a while, both their breaths slowing and becoming steady, Ivar fading from that angry thunder and the king’s from the sharp intakes of fear. Neither moved, and Ivar noticed, though it must have occurred some time ago, that the tent was cast in darkness, a cloud had passed over and now covering the sun, so that no light came in through the top of the tent.

 

“I—“ the king’s voice came out timid, and it was now that he seemed ashamed. The weary look returned to his face, resignation mixed with dignity, “That was unbecoming. I shouldn’t have said it.”

 

Ivar’s brow creased. He looked up and searched the king’s face and all that was there was sincerity, a little guilt perhaps, and some shame, but also overwhelming sincerity.

 

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Ivar almost laughed, he shook his head, knowing the king was watching him now. Hardly a king at all, Ivar thought, hardly a man at all. Ivar snapped at him once and he was retracting the one clever blow he landed at his captor. If there had been others in the tent watching this, someone like Hvitserk, Ivar would have continued the insults, he would have called the boy king a cowering bitch, or one of the many other things that no doubt applied. In the company of just the boy though, Ivar didn’t think it felt right. It wouldn’t have been satisfying.

 

“I meant what I said to you,” The boy continued, even while Ivar laughed at him. He only appeared more confused, as if he might have been missing something in the conversation due to his own lack of sleep and pains, “All that time ago on the hill. Its awful to lose someone you care about, and I am a better man than to use that as a provocation.”

 

Ivar wanted to tell the boy that he remembered that day on the hill as clearly as he remembered the morning. That Ivar thought of it every day, obsessed over the words at times, thinking of how pitying the king’s words had been when they spoke. He did not say this, and instead, Ivar laughed loudly.

 

“A fucking idiot.” Ivar pushed a hand against the boy’s shoulder and shook his head, “Who the fuck cares about being a better man now? You think you’re christian god will reward you for not spitting insults at me? If he cared about you at all you wouldn’t be here, at the mercy of heathen and paying your respects to a man like me.”

 

“A man like you,” the king spoke, voice thick and tired, just as before, but far angrier now, like the sparks of an ember, “Hardly deserves my respect. I don’t apologize because I respect you.”

 

“Because you fear me then?” Ivar says it even though he knows it is wrong. The boy king does not fear him yet, but he will.

 

“No,” the king, the boy, Alfred says. And Ivar thinks that the name is the only way to think of the boy as no other words truly fit his description. “I fear becoming a man like you. I apologize because that is something a man like you could never do.”

 

“I never need to.” Ivar brushes off the insult. He expects such a thing, he’s heard it before, from his brothers, from other men, from those who always underestimated Ivar. He proved them all wrong, he taught them all that he was the only thing the needed to be feared.

 

They watched each other again for another second, sizing one another up, readying for this next move of the game of chess that unwillingly begun to participate in. There was a challenge to it that excited Ivar, thinking that maybe this was his path to victory. He went to speak, but he heard voices calling from far away. A hunting party returning to camp, perhaps.

 

“I think,” Alfred’s voice is quiet. He leaned back against the pole and took in a shaky breath. Whatever had motivated him to talk back to Ivar before was slowly fading, it came with the loud calls coming from outside the tent, signaling that people were awakening and returning from hunts. Ivar felt the mood change too, and while he couldn’t grasp what the change was, he wished it had not happened. “I think that if you are not going to cut off my ear, you ought to find another way to appease your men. They want my blood, and you ought to let them kill me, or you ought to kill me, or else I’ll be killed and you’ll realize that you missed involvement in it completely.”

 

It was framed in the same blasé tone that Alfred had used when Ivar asked which ear he wanted to have cut off. One both unimpressed, and uninvolved in the current reality, one of a man not willing to beg for his life. Yet, the statement had been purposeful, it had been a warning. Ivar’s men would want to see that the king was punished somehow for the attack that had taken place the other night, and if Ivar didn’t give them the bloodshed they wanted, they would get it themselves and Ivar would be left to deal with the aftermath.

It also had been a subtle dig at Ivar’s leadership—Alfred somehow knew how tentative Ivar’s hold as commander of this army was, how little control Ivar still had over parts of the army who thought Ubbe had it right when wanting to find land to settle on and who were tired of fighting in this never-ending war. This was the final reminder that the former mood that had occupied the tent had changed. Ivar and Alfred were not boys throwing insults and threats at each other, they were men responsible for hundreds of lives that were not their own and each word they spoke and each action they took was one that counted for all their people.

As Ivar left the tent, struggling as he adjusted to his crutch, he thought that maybe that is why Alfred apologized before. He may have said he’d done it for his own sake, but Ivar did not think that this was true at all. He’d apologized, because Alfred knew even now tied up and a hostage, he still spoke like a king of Wessex, and he would not let his own recklessness endanger his country.

 

It seemed that Alfred saw himself as a life already lost in this war. That would do Ivar no good, he had no interest in willing sacrifices or these noble christian kings. Ivar wanted bloody wars won, and while the king would not fight for himself, Ivar thought that Alfred would still fight for his country.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Ivar had the king moved from the prisoner tent in the center of the camp and into his own. 

The purpose of the order outweighed any inconvenience Ivar felt at having to share his tent. Alfred had been right, he wasn’t safe in the prisoner tent all alone. Perhaps Ivar hadn’t been noticing it before, but now that the king pointed it out, Ivar could see just how badly his people itched for King Alfred’s blood.   
They were all too stupid to see how foolish it would have been to kill the king—the king who had allowed for this tentative peace from the Saxons—instead they all wanted blood and revenge and Ivar thought he might enjoy those things if it wasn’t at the cost of his own revenge. More so, it was at the cost of his leadership. If Alfred died it would only be a matter of time before the Saxons got vengeance and that could not happen yet.

So Alfred was moved into Ivar’s tent. He had this done by one of the shield maidens, Siggy, whom Ivar trusted well enough not to fuck something so simple up. He had told her to keep the king’s hands bound and to make sure he had food and drink for the day and then Ivar went off to find his brother. 

Hvitserik was standing by the fence drinking with some of the men. He noticed Ivar as he approached and stepped aside to meet him half way.

 

“I heard you sent some of the shield maidens to attack that town across the river,” Hvitserik’s face creased, “Why wouldn’t you send me with them?”

 

“Why would I?” Ivar scoffed, brushing the question off completely. The attack on the town had taken place yesterday, and Ivar thought it was stupid that his brother was coming with a complaint now. “You were the one bitching at me for having to fight too much, and now you’re upset that you aren’t fighting enough?”

 

“You didn’t even tell me about the attack,” Hvitserik spoke lowly, not wanting to be overheard, “I’m not like one of the other commanders. I’m your brother, I should be included in these decisions.”

 

Ivar curled his lip back, “And brother what makes you think you’ve earned that right to be my equal? When you have killed two kings and captured another, you can make the decisions.”

 

Ivar pushed past him. He’d forgotten why he wanted to speak to Hvitserik in the first place, and doubted it was important to anymore. Ivar wished that he didn’t need to talk to anybody in this camp, none of them understood Ivar’s greater goals anyway. No one ever did.

The day passed with Ivar in meetings with his men as the went over strategy of how to advance the Saxon lines now that they had the advantage. Ivar wanted to make moves towards an invasion of Wessex’s largest city, while the others thought they should bargain for more land first. They said war could wait, especially now that they knew the Saxons would not attack them in any full force battle strategy. Ivar knew that they would have to wait, at least until the army was healthy again, but the more the other men talked the more it sounded like they wanted to postpone the war for a number of years and allow the people to farm on whatever land they could take from the Saxons in the negotiations for the king. 

Hvitserik was in some of those same meetings, and Ivar could feel his brother’s angry glare at his back the entire time. He said nothing when the men talked about their farming and stolen peace. He said nothing in defense of Ivar’s argument that the victory had yet to be won. If Hvitserik wanted to be upset then that was fine, he should have gone with Ubbe back to Kattigat if it was going to be this way though. Ivar didn’t have the time or patience to deal with his temperamental mood swings. He needed an ally, not a whinging brat. 

 

It was like that then that Ivar returned to his tent long after the sun had set and the fires of the camp had grown inactive. He felt tired, bones itching for a fight, for a challenge, for something other than the intolerable meetings with idiots which Ivar spent his day wallowing in. He much preferred battle to planning, and the unfortunate side effect of having the enemy’s king meant that the battles had ceased.

Because of this, when Ivar set his eyes on Alfred he felt as though his anger had found an outlet. He could feel his body going in for the fight, mind reeling as he thought of which insult or slur to throw first, and then became angry when he saw that the little king was curled asleep, defenseless against any fight at all.

 

Ivar made his way over to his chair and fell back in it, using the crutch to hit the king’s side before letting the crutch rest against the table. “Wake up.”

 

The king’s eyes opened immediately, blinking as they adjusted to the darkness of the tent. He pushed himself up on his hands and looked forward at Ivar.   
This was the first time that they’d been in the tent together—last night Ivar had stayed elsewhere, planning all night on his own. He knew Alfred had been in here, but something in Ivar made him stay away. It was another thing that Ivar could not place, and he did not let himself think on it at all. 

Alfred sat up, moving so that his bound wrists hung over his knees and his back rested against the chest beside the bedroll. Ivar’s bed. Ivar hadn’t thought to see the king there—he thought that Siggy would have tied Alfred up over by the open space beside Ivar’s maps, somewhere where the king would have been out of the way. It was only now that he realized what Siggy must have understood when Ivar said he wanted the king in his tent and he felt his blood heat at the thought. He looked away from the bed, from Alfred who sat on it so unassumingly, watching Ivar with steady eyes.

 

“Why am I in your tent?” Was Alfred’s words. 

 

Ivar bristled like the words were going to hold an accusation, but they didn’t. Ivar wouldn’t say the king’s tone was one of genuine curiosity, but of careful reserve. A question poised by a man who had thought of every possible answer, but wanted Ivar to confirm the one he thought to be right. 

 

“You want to sleep out in the dirt instead?” Ivar sneered, venom on his tongue. 

 

Alfred didn’t rise to the insult and Ivar remembered what he had said about being a better man. Was this him doing that? The anger that Alfred had so clearly shown the other time they spoke was gone. 

Alfred tried to adjust his arms again, unable to find a way to hold them that felt comfortable with the ropes around his wrists. He must have slept last night, because he looked better than the last time he saw him. More rested, so that the dark circles under his eyes weren’t so harsh, and cleaner too, like Siggy had allowed the boy to wash himself with a cloth and water when he switched tents. He did not look comfortable though, and that was not just because his arms were bound. Ivar watched the look carefully, holding the tone Alfred used when he asked his question against the way the boy now kept his gaze to the side, chest rising and falling with too much control, as if he wished to appear calm.

The Little King was afraid. He was afraid of whatever Ivar’s reason was to have him moved to this tent, afraid of not knowing what was going on around him and what might happen to him next.

 

Ivar felt amusement tug at his lips, “Why do you think you are in my tent, Little King?”

The question floated in the air. A taunt, which made Alfred bristle, shoulders going stiff and eyes hardening, narrowed in the darkness. Ivar waited for the answer.

Alfred looked around, cataloguing the items in the room, though he must have already done that by now since he’d been in the tent since the last night. The boy was looking for a distraction, something which meant that Alfred wouldn’t have to look at Ivar and see what intent was hidden behind his eyes. 

 

“If you kept me in the other then you know that your men would have done something to me.” Alfred finally spoke what must have been his most confident answer, not the answers he feared were right, but the one he knew most likely was. “You listened to the warning I gave you.”

 

“I didn’t listen to anything,” Ivar countered, leaning forward in his seat, “Maybe I just wanted you in my bed.”

 

Alfred stilled, eyes wide and searching, face gone pale. Ivar thought, if he could be quiet enough, he could hear Alfred’s heart beating in his chest. He tried to listen for it, wanting to hear what secrets it might give away. 

 

“No,” Alfred said, and the hard line of his shoulders relaxed somewhat, already knowing he was right, “You aren’t that sort of man.”

 

Ivar leaned back, brow furrowed. What sort of man was that? The kind that slept with other men, slept with captives, the sort that raped, the sort that took what they wanted? Then there was a part of Ivar that feared that Alfred meant that Ivar was the sort of man who couldn’t get it up, just as he couldn’t when he tried to take that slave girl Ubbe married. The sort of man who was hardly a man at all. 

 

Ivar did not let his insecurities play out on his face, rather he asked casually, “And what kind of man is that?”

“The short sighted sort.” Alfred answered, and he’d gone even more relaxed now knowing that he didn’t need to fear what he had before. There was still a guarded posture to him, but not so severe. No one would mistake it for being comfortable, but perhaps the king could sit comfortable relative to his situation. “The kind who acts and does not think what it would mean.”

 

“You don’t know what kind of man I am.” Ivar said lowly. A poised threat. 

 

He was aggravated because the king was right, and yet he was wrong. Ivar was the sort of man who thought, but he wished sometimes that he didn’t have to be. If not for his broken legs, for the way everyone underestimated him, Ivar could be man who did not think, he could be an idiot like his brothers, but Ivar could not afford mistakes like marrying a slave like Ubbe, or sleeping with half the army like Hvitserik. Ivar could not even make those sort of mistakes if he wanted to.

Alfred heard the tone and heard whatever unspoken things accompanied it and the guarded posture was back. Maybe he was not so confident in his guess as he thought. Ivar still just saw a boy who had only just learned what war was, and now he was learning what being powerless was as well. 

It pleased Ivar that he could still make the boy king afraid of the hollow unspoken threat, even if Ivar did not think he could ever deliver on it. If King Alfred believed it, maybe that meant everyone else did as well, and no one would know what other weaknesses Ivar held other than his broken legs. That was the only way that Ivar found Alfred’s fear pleasing though, beyond that it bored him, at least in that moment it did, where Ivar could not analyze why Alfred might be afraid. Was the boy afraid of breaking his christian vows, was he afraid of the humiliation of being taken by another man, was he afraid of the pain he knew would come along with it? 

Ivar might have toyed with these questions before, but his mind was still firmly set on the invasion plans that had begun that afternoon. Even if the others did not want a fight, Ivar could still begin the plans for one, and find a way to cajole the others into the planned invasion when the time came. Thinking this, Ivar turned to his desk and looked at the map spread across it and with the light coming from the oil lamp beside him he started planning his course, the boy on his bed, forgotten.

Ivar could still hear the sounds coming from the fire not far from his tent. Hvitserik’s own was near his own, and he thought he could make out his brother’s voice among the whispered giggles that filtered through the parting in the tent. At this late hour, with half the camp asleep and the other half manning guard, Hvitserik must have taken some young shield maiden to the fire to fuck in the relative privacy, the warmth of the fire to keep away the winter’s biting cold. 

The giggling continued and now Ivar knew that Alfred had heard it too. He shifted on the bed roll, putting his knees up and curling in on himself. He kept adjusting his tied wrists every so often, face turned away to look at the painted shield resting beside the bed.

 

“Stop that.” Ivar growled as he heard Alfred’s arms shift again.

 

Alfred, for his benefit, did. Though only for a moment or two before his arms slipped from where they were perched on his knees and he moved to balance them there again.

Ivar stood up sharply, supporting himself with a hand on his desk as he grabbed his crutch and moved to the opening of the tent and unfurled the ties that kept it half open to let in the fresh air and closed the flap shut. The room became darker, with only the light of the oil lamp keeping it from being pitch blackness. The sounds of Hvitserik and the fire vanished.

King Alfred was being very quiet now, as if Ivar would forget about his presence now that he was hidden in the darkness. Ivar could feel his fear though, the anxiety, which wafted through the air. 

He hobbled to the desk before abandoning the crutch there and lowering himself to the ground so that he could move without all that inconvenience. He moved towards the bedroll, felt for Alfred and grabbed on when he felt the rounded bone of his ankle.

The king let out a sharp gasp, and attempted to move away and shake Ivar off. Ivar reached for his belt and took out his knife and then moved his hand so that it went from Alfred’s ankle, the leg, side, and then wrists. He heard the abortive breathing the whole way, worse when Ivar grabbed the ropes holding both wrists together and pulled the king towards him.

 

“What are you doing?” Alfred’s voice was panicked despite the obvious efforts to keep it controlled. “What are you—“

 

Ivar got the knife under the ropes and cut. The king let out a gasp, and as Ivar’s eyes adjusted to the darkness he could now see the king who’d back himself against the chest, half fallen from the bed. He was staring at Ivar, one hand going to hold the wrists, which had been nicked when Ivar cut the ropes binding him. Slowly, his breathing evened out and Ivar moved away. 

If he stared any longer at the boy king he would begin thinking again, and Ivar was very tired of thinking. He kept his back to Alfred as he climbed back on his chair and looked at the maps on the desk, moving the oil lamp so he would see better.

 

“If you run,” Ivar warned him when he heard the boy moving behind him, “I’ll cut your feet off. If you try to kill me—“ Ivar’s voice trailed off as the very notion was too amusing to consider, even now when Ivar was exhausted and angry, “Well, you can try.”

 

Alfred said nothing, but Ivar knew he was being watched. The sensation bothered him at first, but he slowly came to terms with it, adjusting in his seat so that he was relaxed, and soon he was able to think of something other than the eyes watching his back.


	5. Chapter 5

It seemed the happier the camp grew, the angrier Ivar became. War had become a far off thought in the minds of the northmen, and after these few years fighting on the Saxon land they finally saw the taking of the king the sign of the inevitable surrender of Wessex.

They’d forgotten why they’d even come to this land in the first place, or at least they’d forgotten why Ivar had come to this land, why he waged this war, what he saw their true purpose here being. It was not to just live in this tentative peace with the Saxons, it was to dominate them, to own the dirt beneath their feet and share it with no one, and to eradicate all those who once underestimated the vikings. Those who betrayed Ivar’s father all those years ago, and those who thought killing him would snuff out the viking rage.

 

“They will expect me returned at some point.” 

 

Alfred’s voice spoke and Ivar was not sure if it had been allowed, or if he heard it like the hollow sound that sometimes echoed in his head, reminding Ivar of things he’d rather forget.

Ivar was at his desk in the tent again, the king sat against the chest by Ivar’s bed, one leg stretched out and the other tucked to his chest, arms hanging loosely around it. It had been nearly a fortnight since King Alfred had been taken, and Ivar and him had been sharing this tent for nearly as long. 

Even so Ivar ever saw the king, only ever at night when Ivar returned to the tent after a long day—some nights Ivar chose never to return at all, rather staying elsewhere, where he did not feel as if he was being watched. The king’s presence was only ever bothersome unless Ivar wanted a fight, and then it became a hunt.

“So eager to return to them?” Ivar mocked him, not looking up from the paper at his desk. 

 

Supplies from Kattegat had come in through the river the day before, and with it a letter from Ubbe, telling Ivar that Lagertha called for war, and that Ubbe would be taking her side unless Ivar abandoned his revenge against her.

The letter had enraged Ivar the first time he read it, now he only poured over the words wishing his brother was clever enough to put something meaningful in the phrases. He hadn’t shown Hvitserik the letter yet, Ivar still didn’t know what he was going to do with it. With peace in Wessex tentative, yet assured, Ivar wondered if he ought to go home to find a new war to fight.

Ivar had a plan to continue the war here. He’d been thinking about it for the last few days and he was very pleased with what he’d come up with. While everyone was fine with peace now, in another fortnights time Ivar expected he’d have them raging for the battle and Saxon blood. This plan was only interrupted now with the emergence of the letter and Ivar had to decide, which battle to take.

 

“They’ve done everything you’ve requested.” Alfred told him, tone easy, but behind the tone was calculation. 

 

They did not speak often to one another, certainly not when threats weren’t the topic, overtime they did speak though, it was calculated. Ivar remembered the game of chess they played long ago. He thought they were still playing it now.

 

Alfred continued, “At some point they’ll expect my return, soon, I’d imagine. When they realize that you have no intentions of giving me back—“

 

Ivar turned, “Who says that its not my intention? Do you think I want you here, taking up my tent, eating my peoples food? You don’t think I’m a good enough man to keep my word in this bargain?”

Alfred leveled what was a very unimpressed expression. The boy king may have been stupid enough to take his mother’s place as captive in this camp, but he was not so stupid to think that Ivar would ever let him leave with his life. 

 

“Fine.” Ivar tossed a hand dismissively, turning back to the letter to read it again. It was late, he ought to sleep and stop thinking about it. What it held though, was a choice. Stay and fight this ending war in Wessex, or go back to his rightful home and avenge his mother’s death. The choice should have been easy, but Ivar did not want to leave Wessex until he felt as if he’d won and he still did not feel that way. “I suppose you’ll just have to wait and see what I have planned.”

Alfred sighed, head tilting back to rest against the chest. He’d taken to the habit to staying awake as long as Ivar was awake. It was a clear sign of distrust, another showing that the king was not as stupid as he looked. When Ivar did sleep, when he slept in the tent, he would take the bed roll and Alfred would go across the space to the opposite side and sleep on ground there, always with his line of sight on Ivar, waiting for an attack.

In the first days Ivar found this amusing. Sometimes he would stay up as late as he could, until the sun would rise up, just to watch the Saxon boy do the same. The fun in that wore off quickly, and when Ivar did try to sleep in the tent, he struggled to find peace, always sensing eyes on him. It was why he tended to sleep elsewhere for the night, somewhere he knew he would’t be watched, or at least not watched by Alfred.

Ivar’s presence in the tent though mainly served the purposes of allowing him to read the letter without the risk of someone else seeing it and knowing what it said. Alfred could not read the runic letters, and while most other vikings couldn’t either, Hvitserik and some of the other commanders could and those were the one’s Ivar needed to hide this from.

Even so, Ivar’s presence also meant that Alfred was still awake, and would remain that way until Ivar had either made his decision or left the choice unmade. Alfred swallowed a yawn, pulling a hand through his black hair, which had become oily and knotted since becoming a prisoner. If it was cut short, or even braided back it wouldn’t look so mangy, but that was apparently not the way of a king and so his hair continued to hang loosely around his face.

 

“Its short sighted,” Alfred said suddenly, the words leaving his mouth with a dismissive tone and Ivar didn’t know what he was speaking about for a second, before realizing Alfred was back on the topic of his return to the Saxons. Ivar set the letter down. “Their patience is not eternal. They’ll realize the truth soon enough and when they do they’ll attack this camp, even if it means you kill me for it.”

 

“I know it is your mother who is in charge now,” Ivar said, leaning his elbows against his legs as he spoke down to the boy, “You think she’ll call for an attack if it means your life? You may be a bastard, but she can’t hate you that much, can she?”

 

Alfred pressed his lips together, in the way Ivar noticed he did when he was trying to not say the thing most present in his mind. It was always done when the king wanted to trade an insult, but it never left his lips, and Ivar always felt disappointed. 

 

“My mother knows that Wessex is more important. She won’t let her feelings get in the way of saving the lives of our people. You can’t expect to keep getting away with sacking the villages for long, eventually you’ll meet retaliation.”

 

Ivar rolled his eyes. Now with the northmen regaining their strength it didn’t even matter if the Saxons did attack. Without Alfred leading the command, it would go back to the time before the little king took command, back to when the victories were easy and war raged with no end in sight. Back when Ivar was a vicious king among his people.

 

Alfred wrinkled his brow, mouth opening. His hands fell from where they wove around his knee to grab the ground as he leaned forward, “That is what you want, isn’t it? You aren’t like other men, you like this war, you like killing. You plan to keep me long enough to provoke an attack out of them, only they must strike first, because you couldn’t possibly convince your men to do that now, not when they’re getting everything they want through the negotiations. They want this war to end, but you don’t.”

 

“Shut up.” Ivar moved back, almost like he’d been slapped. Alfred had seen right through Ivar and guessed what Ivar had planned, at least what he had planned before the letter from Kattegat. 

 

“It’s true then.” Alfred looked crestfallen, leaning back against the chest, and letting his leg slide down so that both were now splayed in front of him, “You really plan to continue this war even when victory is already yours? Do you love killing so much?”

 

“This war is not won until I say it is.” Ivar’s hands clenched into fists as he thought of how he never wanted to win by Saxony surrender. That would have been no victory at all, and Ivar did not want to leave this land until he felt as if he’d finally won. “And what does it matter to you? You’re dead soon anyway.”

 

This though did not feel right on Ivar’s tongue. Like the war, Alfred would not die until Ivar decided the death was truly won. That time had not come yet, and as it was, the mere thought of the boy king dying at this present time made him feel sick with rage.

Alfred shook his head, but said nothing else. His eyes looked heavier now, skin paler, spirits dim. The thought of war weighed heavy on the king—the thought of war waged in vengeance for himself was no doubt worse. 

And Ivar had wanted to crush the king this way. He wanted Alfred to see how hopeless his situation was, to see that a thousand of his christian men would die and it was all his fault, and Ivar had looked at Alfred’s steady, calm expressions for days now as the boy slowly got more comfortable with his place in the camp, and Ivar hated been waiting for the moment where he got to knock that feeling of safety off the other boy’s face. And now that Ivar had, it did not feel satisfying. 

It was not as if Ivar had tricked Alfred into any false feelings of safety, or like he’d executed a well thought out plan for the boy’s misery. Alfred had guessed what Ivar planned to do, and Ivar didn’t feel as if he played any reasonable part in the misery that brought the king.

That must have been why seeing the king fall silent now, and watching as his mind retreated in on himself, reminding Ivar of how Alfred had looked so long ago on the hill days after his brother died, a ghost of himself, bothered Ivar so. That must have been why Ivar tucked the letter away in his pocket and reached for his crutch and stood up, keeping one hand on the table as he adjusted his brace and then began heading to the exit of the tent.

 

“Get up.” Ivar told the king as he stood at the flap and untied the knots there so it would open.

 

Alfred blinked, pushing himself up a little to get a look at what Ivar was doing, tilting his head as if looking to see who stood outside their tent and waited for him. 

 

“What?” Alfred asked, slowly getting to his feet, and keeping one hand against the far wall.

 

Ivar gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes and jerk his head, waving impatiently, “Come on. How long are you going to stand there like and idiot—unless you want to stay here—“

 

Alfred saw the opportunity at hand, and his caution was lost at the chance of stepping outside. “Where are were going?” he asked, voice dropping to a near whisper when he started to follow Ivar across the silent camp.

 

The embers to the fires were burning low, and as they walked past the tents and shelters, Ivar felt that this outing really should remain a secret. It was not just the consequences that might accompany it if one of the others were to find out about it, but Ivar felt though their silent steps, and the way Alfred kept his pace slow to accommodate Alfred’s crutch and legs, and how his arm would occasionally bump against Ivar’s side as the king attempted to stay close, was best kept hidden to the darkness, as if that was where it belonged.

It should have occurred to Ivar that Alfred might try to run, but he knew the king wouldn’t. It must have been because of nobility, or some other shit that made Alfred continue to make stupid decisions that never benefited himself. If Alfred was smart he would take these moments as an opportunity to knock Ivar over and try to make a run out of the camp. He may not make it far, but it was at least a chance of escape, a chance at living longer than he thought Ivar had planned for him. Though as Ivar glanced at the king’s face as they made it down a marshy hill towards the river, he did not think that the king considered that option at all.

The river was empty. Some ways away the viking ships floated, tied to the docks that had been erected to hold them at bay. Where Ivar had taken Alfred though was near a line of trees, where the water wasn’t so deep and where the women and slaves would sometimes come to wash their clothes and get water for boiling. 

Ivar’s crutch was more of a hinderance on the uneven rocky shoreline. As if anticipating this, Alfred moved a hand to help. Ivar hissed at him, shoving his hand away and finished his trek to the edge of the river himself. He didn’t look the other boy in the face, thinking maybe in the moonlight Alfred would see the flush on Ivar’s neck. He sat down on the shore moved his crutch to the side and started to unlatch his brace so that the pain would not be so bad.

Alfred stood a little behind him, still looking at the trees, and the water, and the boats down the way, and then of course, Ivar.

 

“Aren’t you afraid that I’ll run?” Alfred asked as he took some tentative steps forward, still keeping a wide birth from Ivar as he watched the other work on undoing the brace.

 

Ivar snorted, “You will not run.”

“I could.” Alfred’s argument was more of indignation than actual consideration. He glared at Ivar, Ivar didn’t have to look to know what his expression would have been.

 

Ivar unlatched the last of the brace, and thought he could continue this little argument with Alfred for a while more. He thought he could say things to really rile the king up, maybe make a true fight out of the moment. But then thought of the quiet, and the darkness, and the babbling of the river as it passed them by, and how tentative this moment really was. 

Ivar knew he could say something, threatening something to make sure Alfred wouldn’t run away, but in this moment, he thought it would be more satisfying it Alfred chose to stay himself.

 

“Are you going to run?” Ivar raised an eyebrow, leaving the question open for Alfred to choose.

 

Alfred’s brow furrowed and his mouth opened, words caught in his throat. He looked from Ivar to the river bed he’d been brought to and then must have been taking in the silence from the camp above them. Ivar waited, and with each passing second he thought that framing it like Alfred had a choice was a mistake. Though, if he ran now, there was little Ivar could do to stop him.

 

Alfred tore his eyes away from the camp and shook his head, “No, I suppose I won’t.” 

 

He took a few steps down the riverbed until he reached the shoreline. Not near Ivar, but not so far away either. A middle distance. Alfred kneeled down and picked up a flat, smooth stone and ran it over in his hand. Ivar watched, wondering when he should speak and what in this moment he should say. He didn’t think Alfred would have run, but Ivar hadn’t prepared himself what to do when he stayed either. 

 

“You smell like shit.” Ivar told him, coughing slightly and looking towards the water. “I didn’t bring you here so that you can play with some rocks.”

Alfred looked at the water, mouth opening up again, and Ivar really wished he’d keep it closed. A knotted feeling was filling Ivar’s chest as he looked at him, and so he was sure to keep his eyes on the water so that he wouldn’t have to.

 

“Oh.” Alfred said, and even when Ivar tried to keep looking at the river, he could make out the blush forming on Alfred’s neck. “Right. Thank you.”

 

Alfred must have been pretty desperate to get clean, because he didn’t argue with Ivar anymore, or make a show of being embarrassed to disrobe in front of the other boy. He left his clothes at a pile by the shore and quickly got into the water, submerging his head under the depths.

Ivar moved his eyes to the stone Alfred had been looking at before and went to pick it up, moving his thumb over the smooth surface. He heard Alfred break the surface of the water, taking in a deep breath of air, but Ivar did not look. 

It was a warmer night than most, the warmest one in a while, and while the river must have been cold Alfred made no complaint and did not rush his time in there like Ivar had thought, and had started to hope. Ivar felt in his chest that he had made a mistake bringing Alfred out here tonight, only Ivar didn’t know how just yet.

 

“You’re staying up there?” Alfred asked after a while. He must have been standing in the water, because as Ivar glanced he could see Alfred’s bare shoulders staying above the water. He was flushed from the cold, but by all signs, comfortable in the water.

 

Ivar wondered if Alfred thought Ivar would join him in the river, and made a face like the thought insulted him. “I’m fine where I am.”

 

Alfred’s dark mood from in the tent seemed gone now, and even hearing the dark hiss of Ivar’s tone did not sully his content disposition. Alfred nodded, as if Ivar had spoken the words casually, shared among two friends, and then he dipped his head back in the water and went under the inky darkness for a while more.

 

When he emerged Alfred shook his dark hair, and scrubbed the skin of his arms with his palms, the dirt vanishing, “What does the letter say?”

 

Ivar hand almost went to his chest where the letter was stashed, but he kept it at his side, curling his fist into the pebbles around him. “What makes you think that that is something you should know, Little King.”

 

Alfred made a face, a rather unimpressed one like before, and continued to scrub a hand against his dirty skin, not moving it over his collar bones where the dirt mingled with bruised skin.

 

“Why do you call me that?” Alfred asked.

 

Ivar felt off balanced by these quick changes in conversation, off balanced by the conversation at all really. This was not something he and Alfred did, talk. Certainly not about things that had no perceivable relevancy to either the war, Alfred’s freedom, Wessex, or the intentions of the northmen. 

 

“Because it bothers you.” Ivar answered quickly, surprised that the answer was truthful at all, and pleased at how it made Alfred look so unsatisfied as his hands stilled and fell to his sides.

 

“How do you know it bothers me? I never told you to stop; you’ve certainly called me worse names than that, which must have given you more satisfying reactions.”

 

Ivar felt his lip quirk. It was such a causal argument asserted by the king, and Ivar found that while it amused him, it did not do so in a way that made Ivar feel as if he had to win this particular one, or even that he wanted to.

 

Ivar could have given a more dismissive answer, one that might have either ended the conversation or taken it in a more angry direction, or one that reminded Alfred that Ivar wasn’t some other boy who he could ask stupid questions to. That while, Ivar had allowed Alfred to come out here to the lake, they were not friends, and Ivar was still a danger to the king.

 

Instead, Ivar leaned forward and raised a brow, “You really want to know how I know?”

 

Alfred nodded his head and seemed to drift closer in the water, as if they were sharing a conspiracy with one another.

 

“I know it bothers you,” Ivar said when he thought that Alfred had come close enough and would hear him well. And Ivar noticed for the first time that Alfred tilted his head in the direction of his good ear as he waited and listened and that was a detail Ivar wished he had noticed long before. His eyes traced down from where Alfred bent his head, to his shoulder and down his bare chest until his body disappeared in the black waters. “Because when I call you it your face gets red, and you recoil back like you think I’m a snake. Your mouth falls open like you want to say something back, but you never do and then you go silent for a while and that blush doesn’t leave your skin until I’ve said something else to subdue it.”

 

The blush Ivar spoke of was very present now, and Ivar knew it had nothing to do with the cold air. Alfred opened his mouth, just like Ivar said he would, and as if realizing this Alfred snapped it closed and looked away. 

 

“Thats ridiculous.” Alfred said as he moved back towards the center of the water, away from Ivar. He wouldn’t look towards the beach, and Ivar thought that this was very fair considering all the moments Ivar didn’t think he could look at Alfred either. “I know what you’re getting at—its not true.”

 

Ivar felt the grin fill his face as he watched Alfred stubbornly speak his words towards the river. “You’re still blushing now, aren’t you?”

 

“Shut up.” Alfred told him, and Ivar knew that he was right, the other boy’s skin was still flushed red.

 

Ivar looked down and laughed, quietly and more to himself than for Alfred. He was still holding the flat stone in his hand, he ran his thumb over it again and thought, with a wrinkle of his brow, that he could not recall ever having laughed like that before. He thought that it had been a very long time, maybe even long before this war, where Ivar didn’t feel like Ivar-the-Boneless, or Ivar-the-Cripple, when he spoke with someone like he had with Alfred. 

This had nothing to do with the words Ivar spoke, or the meaning behind it, but it was the way Ivar spoke and felt like he really was just another boy sitting on a river bed speaking to another across from him. There was no plan behind it, or scheme, or even motive that went beyond getting to see the high blush on Alfred’s face. Ivar didn’t remember when was the last time he spoke so recklessly, the last time he spoke and felt content with the words disappearing into the night.

 

“We should go soon.” Ivar said, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as he played these thoughts over in his mind. He set the smooth stone back down with the others and went to fix his brace.

 

Alfred’s face fell, but he nodded and started moving back to the shoreline to wade out of the water. Alfred got dressed while Ivar fixed the rest of the latches on his brace. By the time Ivar was reaching for his crutch Alfred was pulling his shirt over his head, the fabric sticking to his wet skin.

 

“It feels so much colder now.” Alfred said so quietly that Ivar didn’t know if it was meant for him to hear.

 

Ivar nodded anyway and used his crutch to help himself up. He started walking first and Alfred followed a little behind. It wasn’t like before when they both walked close together conspiratorially where neither really knew where their destination might have lead. That quiet peace at the river was fading out, so close to shattering, and Ivar felt that if he spoke it would break completely and Ivar found himself thinking that he was not ready for that just yet.

Alfred went inside the tent first, ducking through the flap and disappearing inside. Ivar did not follow just yet. They couldn’t have been gone for more than an hour and yet it felt like the night was about to end. 

Ivar shut his eyes closed and tried to dispel that feeling that sat in his chest that had taken hold at the river. He had no name for it, but it felt like weakness. It also felt like want, though both things were essentially the same. There was no use in wanting when you were strong enough to take. Ivar thought he could take what he wanted and that feeling in his chest would surely leave him, and he didn’t think it would ever return. But it would also break that shattering glass that Ivar cradled in his mind so desperately, the one that felt like weakness, that felt like boyhood, and the surrender of care, and he thought that it would not be worth it at all. 

There was rusting inside the tent and Ivar let out the breath he’d been holding in and went inside. Alfred was moving something around, reaching for one of the blankets that lay across Ivar’s bed with intent on taking it to his own. 

 

“You still smell awful.” Ivar said, though he was not near enough to Alfred to smell anything at all.

 

Alfred froze, caught in his little theft and then dropped the blanket to pull at his shirt, “That isn’t really something I can control.”

 

Ivar pressed his lips together and jerked his head at the chest beside his bed. “Take some new clothes from there. If you’re going to be staying for a while longer, I’d rather not share my tent with someone who smells like shit.”

 

Alfred had listened to Ivar’s words carefully, and Ivar forgot that he had to limit his words around Alfred, because the other boy always caught on to the smallest phrase and knew its meaning.

 

“Am I,” Alfred asked, a serious look on his refined features, that made him look neither happy nor upset, “Going to be staying here a while longer?”

Are you not going to kill me soon the words might have meant, or will i not be returned soon. The difference, and the slip, should have been meaningless to Ivar. It shouldn’t matter to Ivar if Alfred thought he was going to die tomorrow, be returned home tomorrow, or if he thought he’d stay in the camp forever. 

It did feel like it mattered though. And the slip of phrase felt like Ivar had made some sort of mistake and gave away a private thought. It was none of those things, and yet Ivar couldn’t meet Alfred’s eyes when he spoke.

 

“Who the fuck knows.” He said this like why should I care about the difference and Alfred certainly heard that intonation too. 

 

The tent began to feel too small and Ivar turned his head towards the doorway and could feel the heavy presence of the letter against his chest. He still hadn’t made a choice, or not one that he acknowledged at least.

The choice, in a way, felt like it had already been made for him.

Ivar left the tent and Alfred did not ask where he was going. The distance was better, this way at least they could both sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to leave comments! they definitely motivate me to keep writing
> 
> also i plan for this to be about 40k, just so ya know.


	6. Chapter 6

Alfred was right, eventually Ivar would have to make a decision about what to do with him.

Ivar had burned the letter from Ubbe the night of the river, and for the next week he wondered if he’d made the right decision. If he’d gone back to Kattegat though, it meant that Ivar would have to finish his plans with the Saxons early, and that meant killing Alfred. 

Alfred knew it himself. Ivar couldn’t just let the Saxon king go back to his people. If Ivar was going to return to Kattegat it meant killing Alfred first and when Ivar realized that he knew that he really didn’t have any control in the choice he made in burning the letter.

He told himself that Alfred was still alive because Ivar hadn’t taken his vengeance yet. That he was still in Wessex because he had not yet won the war. Ivar told himself that when he finished both these things he could return home and retake the seat of king that was meant for him. Ivar told himself a lot of things. Alfred’s voice was always louder.

 

“Its like they don’t even care that I’m here anymore.” Alfred remarked, half to himself as he sat near Ivar in the open pitched tent where Ivar was sharpening his ax against a whetstone. 

 

It had started raining that afternoon, and Alfred said that this was common in Wessex and that it meant winter would be over soon and everyone should expect spring, which he then said was not much warmer than the winters. Ivar wanted to tell him that it was always cold in Kattegat, and that this Saxon spring would probably be as warm as their summers. He wanted to say that their weather was much more tolerable anyway because it didn’t rain so much as it did here, but theses words didn’t leave Ivar’s lips. He instead stood up and told Alfred to follow him.

There wasn’t much threat in the camp anymore for Alfred, and he’d been right when he said that the norsemen didn’t really care that he was there anymore. As Ivar and Alfred went under the shelter of the large tent and Ivar went to start sharpening his ax while Alfred sat on a stump not far away, many people passed the two of them without a second glance. 

Alfred found this fascinating for some reason, and watched the people move past the tent, and of course when there was no one left to watch Alfred just looked out to the camp and watched as rain engulfed in, a thoughtful expression on his face. 

Ivar hadn’t expected trouble when he brought Alfred out here with him. Still, he expected more reaction than when he got from the norsemen and as Ivar thought of how right Alfred was in his comment about them not caring, he also thought that there was now no reason for the two of them to share a tent anymore.

 

“You aren’t as interesting as you think you are.” Ivar spoke towards his ax, focusing on the flints of fire and steel rather than the man beside him.

 

Alfred was still watching the rain, but his good ear was tilted towards Ivar so he knew that he was listening. “Its been almost a month.”

 

Ivar knew how long it had been. A month of peace in the camp, and other than the attack that happened the second day Alfred was there, the Saxons had done nothing but send messengers occasionally to take the requests Ivar had in exchange for Alfred’s safety. Ivar was running out of requests to give.

 

“You miss your soft bed and crown?” Ivar asked, and while it had been delivered to be mocking, Alfred looked as if he was taking the question seriously.

 

“Not so much. Not the crown at least—it had been my father’s, I don’t think it ever really fit me right. There hadn’t been time to forge a new one…”

 

Ivar wondered if Alfred's voice trailed off because he was remembering that Ivar had been the one to kill his father, and then his brother too. Ivar had not mentioned this, at least not in the past few weeks, even though he knew that those taunts would have been the fastest way to get a reaction out of Alfred. Ivar didn’t want to remind him though, that he’d been the one to kill them.

 

“Why do you call him that?” Ivar asked, wishing he’d changed the subject more dramatically than he did. He didn’t want to talk about dead kings at all, not when he knew that he still had a choice to make about the living one in front of him.

“What do you mean—oh.” Alfred frowned, he’d glanced at Ivar when he asked, but now he had turned to watch the rain again. “Aethelwulf, why I call him father.” Alfred pressed his lips together as he thought of how to explain it to Ivar, and while Ivar didn’t really care, and he only asked the question because he hadn’t thought of something better to say, he found himself slowing the whetstone to listen. “I never knew my real father. Everyone said he was a good man, well my mother and grandfather did, and then your father did too, I suppose. I never met him though, and I don’t think he ever knew about me. Aethelwulf knew that I was a bastard and he raised me like a son anyway. He was a better father than anything born in sin deserved.”

 

Ivar didn’t understand the Saxon and christian obsession with bastardy and sin. Let alone the way their god condemned sex outside of their marriages. Alfred spoke though, as if him being a bastard was some grave sin that he’d taken part in. That he deserved punishment for what his mother had done and Ivar wished he understood better why that was. He thought that the christian god must be cruel though, to have made Alfred think that there was some inherent punishment that should have accompanied his life.

 

Ivar set his ax back on the whetstone and began to sharpen it again, “He was a good fighter. Not very clever, but I saw him on the battlefield. He always fought hard.”

 

Alfred nodded, “Aethelred was good like that too.”

 

Ivar remembered Alfred’s older half-brother and remembered killing him and didn’t really agree. This was not something that needed to be said out loud, it would only upset Alfred if he did.

 

“You never fought in your battles.” Ivar commented, watching Alfred out of the corner of his eyes to see that he was listening, “I remember seeing you in York. Your father had to come save you and then you and your brother retreated before the worst of the fighting happened. When you became king, you never fought at all.”

 

Alfred had his lips pressed together, making a thin line, he was still staring out into the rain. 

“The last two kings fell in battle. I knew if I went out there I’d be the third.” Alfred glanced down at his hands, then back to the rain, “I’m not a skilled fighter anyway. I loved learning about strategy from my grandfather, but I was hopeless with a blade. If my father and brother could die in battle, I knew that I’d probably die just trying to leave the gate. My talents were better served elsewhere.” He said this all and then looked over at Ivar, who looked away before he was caught staring and began to focus on his ax again and the red sparks. Alfred kept watching him and then sighed, “You probably think thats foolish, don’t you? What sort of king doesn’t fight with his men? I know you always fought with yours, all my commanders always said you were viscous on the field.”

 

Ivar had stopped to listen again and he found his mind kept focusing on the fact Alfred had compared the two of them, like he thought Ivar was the king of his people just like Alfred was king of his. Like they were equals. 

 

“Like you said,” Ivar coughed looking back to the whetstone and setting the blade down again, knowing that it was already sharp enough and he ought to stop soon before ruining the steel, “You have talents better suited elsewhere.”

 

Alfred scoffed, shaking his head. His hair had gotten wet in the rain during the walk from Ivar’s tent to this one and Ivar was reminded of how Alfred had looked in the lake that night, pale skin, and moonlight, and that feeling that should have shattered by now, but hadn't. “No, I should have fought alongside my men. If they were willing to risk their lives, then why wasn’t I?”

 

Ivar wanted to remind him that it was only under Alfred’s leadership that the Saxons started winning battles at all. Whatever Alfred had done to help prepare them before battle had saved more Saxon lives than when the other two kings fought alongside their men and lost. Alfred though, would not be stopped or appeased.

 

“I think I must have been a coward to not have joined them. Aethelred had just died and my mother was so convinced that I would too. She was right, I would have, but I should have gone out there anyway.”

 

“Who would that have helped?” Ivar asked sharply and then remembered himself, “Other than me of course. With you dead your people would be scrambling to get another king, I’d have attacked them then, while they were disorganized. Wessex would be mine.”

 

This should have been said with some sort of wistful desire, because if Ivar had won the war then, undefeated in battle, no one would question him, or underestimate him, ever again. He’d return to Kattegat with all of Wessex his, maybe Ivar wouldn’t have returned to Kattegat at all, he wouldn’t need to. He’d make himself Earl of Wessex and every northman would hear of what Ivar had done and they’d remember him as a god and come willing to worship. 

But Alfred would have been dead, and Ivar would have never known him. Maybe he would have seen his body among the casualties after battle and think to himself that he looked faintly of that boy Ivar played chess with so long ago. He’d cut off Alfred’s head and set it on the gates with his brother’s and father’s, and Ivar wouldn’t have the crucifix Alfred gave him or the memory of that day on the hill, and he wouldn’t have the memory of this moment now, of watching Alfred watch the rain.

A kingdom, being a god, didn’t feel worth that. 

 

“My mother would have taken the crown.” Alfred reminded Ivar that they’d been talking about war still, and what happened to Wessex when Alfred fell. Why did they have to talk about such things? Why did Ivar had to consider what would happen after Alfred was killed? “If we were in war now you’d see that she is far more capable than me. My grandfather taught her too. She is the smartest woman in all of Wessex, smarter even. I know that there are kings in Mercia and Northumbria that aren’t as clever as her. She will take care of Wessex when I’m gone, and at least now there will be no debate about her legitimacy.”

 

Ivar set his ax down on the bench beside him, and looked at Alfred with a furrowed brow. “Why are you talking like this? I haven’t said that you are dead yet. I haven’t given anyone permission to let you die.”

It should have sounded more threatening, Ivar meant it to sound threatening at least. It didn’t come out that way, and instead Ivar sounded desperate and afraid. The rain, at least, must have made it hard for Alfred to hear, especially with the bad ear. Ivar hoped at least that he hadn’t heard how much Ivar hated the thought of Alfred dying now.

 

Alfred shook his head, and it seemed he didn’t notice that fear in Ivar’s words. He looked to be too caught up in his own mind to register it. “You needn’t lie to me, Ivar. I know that I’m not going to live once you’ve got what you wanted and your army is healthy enough to launch an attack against my army now. You can take Wessex and you won’t need me alive to keep my people at bay. You should know though, that even if you kill me, you could still convince my mother for a bid at peace. I know you like fighting, but there are other battles for you to fight in. You don’t have to fight one here.”

Ivar was watching, breath held still in his lungs. He pressed his lips together and looked away, reaching for something else to sharpen, and landing on the sword resting in the sheath. He grabbed it and set it against the whetstone and didn’t speak.

Every time Ivar thought he had something to say the words would dry up in his throat and each time he glanced in his peripheral at Alfred and saw him staring out into the rain he could not think of anything to say that didn’t feel like a lie. The truth though was a lie in itself as well. If Ivar said he did not want Alfred to die, it would be a lie because Alfred would end up dying anyway. For the first time Ivar realized he did not have full control to whether or not Alfred left this camp alive.

Hvitserik and Thorunn and Siggy and all of Ivar’s other commanders knew what the plan had been from the beginning. They knew that they would get all that they could from the Saxons until they were weak and useless and then they’d kill the king and take the land. Most expected some fighting, but ultimately no war fought for the dead king or his broken country. With Alfred dead and with the heathen army powerful again, the Saxons would surrender whatever they had in order to save the lives of whoever was left.

This was to say, Ivar could not let Alfred live. Not when he’d told his army that he was going to see the king dead. Not when they all wanted that too.

 

“I’ll keep you alive as long as I feel like it.” Ivar said stubbornly, “Maybe I like having my christian pet at my feet. I don’t need to kill you to provoke a war.”

 

Alfred sighed and he finally looked away from the rain and set a steady gaze on Ivar, “I’m asking you to not make a war at all. You don’t need one, you don’t even need me alive to keep peace. Kill me and deliver my mother my body whole and she will hear what your people have to say and she will agree to peace terms if you let those remaining in Wessex live. They’ll give you land to farm on, the same land they promised in that peace meeting before—more land probably now.”

 

Ivar shook his head, and scoffed, wishing to change the hollow mood that had taken over this tent, “I don’t need peace, and I haven’t decided that I want you dead yet. Maybe I’ll wage war and make you watch as I kill your people and take your kingdom, and only then will I see if I feel like killing you.”

 

Alfred just shook his head, frustrated, and looked away from Ivar and back to the rain. He’d not give into the taunts or lower himself into believing threats, and Ivar knew that the king must not believe that Ivar meant them anymore and half of Ivar wanted to prove he did and the other half wished he believed, like Alfred, that he wasn’t the man he made himself out to be. Like before, neither of those things felt true. 

 

“I don’t know why I’ve even bothered saying any of this,” Alfred spoke bitterly to himself, almost overshadowed by the rain that he continued to watch, “I don’t know why I thought you might actually listen.”

 

“I don’t know why you would think that either.” Ivar kept his tone light, just like before when he threatened him, but doing so was a challenge, just as it was a challenge to not watch Alfred instead of watching the blade. 

 

Alfred leaned forward, as if trying to get closer to the rain and further away from Ivar. Yet he still remained close enough that Ivar thought he could reach out and touch. He wouldn’t though, Ivar still had that much control and so instead he forced his gaze away from Alfred and watched the blade of the sword spark against the whetstone he sat in front of.

 

“When I—“ Alfred spoke and then promptly fell silent, pressing his lips together in the way he did when he was thinking through his words. “When you do decide its time,” he started again, and Ivar knew what he was talking about and he moved the sword away, opening his mouth to end the conversation right there, but Alfred shook his head and continued anyway, “When you do decide. And when you decide that you want war more than peace, and when you decide to do all those other things you talked about,” Alfred went silent again, as if thinking one last time, and Ivar did not dare interrupt, “Let her death be quick at least. My mother’s—if you are the one to kill her, or you have some say in the manner in which she dies, let it at least be fast.”

And Ivar's heart was beating very loudly in his chest and he thanked the gods that between Alfred’s bad ear and the rain, the other boy wouldn’t have heard just how loud it was. He gave a stiff nod and grabbed the sword again, which was far past sharpened and he set it to the stone anyway. Still, Alfred watched him, leaning forward with his elbows resting against his knees and now turned towards Ivar so that they were all but touching and he waited for a response. 

 

Ivar swallowed thickly and this time he would not dare look up at Alfred, “Fine. I’ll let her death be quick. I can’t say the same for yours.”

 

Alfred visibly relaxed, and it almost looked like strings had been holding him up before, all pulled taut, and now they’d been cut and his limbs fell free. He whispered "thank you" but it was carried away with the rain and Ivar only barely heard it. 

Ivar wished that he knew how to cause such relief to a person without having to threaten their life. No, not a person—Ivar didn’t care about threatening other people, or their comfort or relief. He didn’t care about other people at all. 

And this was terrible, and it was weakness, and if Ivar didn’t have a name for all of it before he had one now. Alfred was its name, and Alfred had been the one to do this to Ivar. Alfred had made Ivar so weak that he was making promises just to soothe the anxieties of his prisoner—the prisoner Ivar had meant to destroy. 

Alfred made Ivar weak, and Ivar knew what that had to mean, and Alfred must have known too. Ivar would cut out his weakness like a boiled sore. He’d kill the disease before it killed him.  
As Alfred tilted his head back to watch the rain, Ivar watched Alfred and told himself all of these things. He still felt like he was lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so some words should have been italicized but SOMEONE *cough* ao3 *cough* got rid of that. Anyway, forget what i said about weekly updates, this should hopefully be done in like 2 days
> 
> also i love angst and death and sadness and run-on-sentences and this chapter has all of that PLUS vikings so that pretty cool


	7. Chapter 7

It seemed Alfred had grown embarrassed for causing the somber change in mood and attributed all his talk of death to Ivar’s quiet state. 

They’d both gone back to Ivar’s tent when the rain had slowed down, only for Ivar to leave soon after entering and going off on his own. Ivar spent his time thinking, wishing for battle or a suitable distraction for his current dilemma. He returned to his tent some time later having found none.

 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken so openly about my death before,” Alfred said soon after Ivar returned to the tent. Alfred was on his side of the space, a sheepish expression on his face. “I didn’t consider if it was a taboo for your people to do so. Its only, well, its all I’ve been able to think about as of late and I needed to be sure that things were squared away before it happened.”

 

Ivar was on his own bed roll. He’d been working on taking off his leg braces when Alfred began speaking. Ivar didn’t stop as he listened, the work distracted him from focusing too intently on everything Alfred said. “I don’t give a fuck if you want to talk about death. I just don’t see the point. I already told you that I’m not going to let you die yet.”

 

The discontent expression returned to Alfred’s face. He looked down, tapping a long pale finger against his knee. “You really don’t have to lie to me about this, Ivar.” Alfred said when he finally looked up, “I knew what sort of deal I was making when I traded my life for my mother’s.”

 

Ivar pushed the brace away and then went to take the shirt off his back. The air had grown humid, especially inside the tent, and it felt unpleasantly warm. When Ivar glanced at Alfred, the other boy was looking away again.

 

“I don’t care enough to lie to you.” Ivar told him as he tossed his shirt over to the desk. “And I really don’t care about what sort of deal you think you made.”

 

Alfred sighed, heavy with frustration, but Ivar could tell that he wasn’t going to try and argue his point anymore. He was letting Ivar win. 

They stayed then in companionable silence for a while. It was not so late that either of them would be tired enough for sleep, and Ivar really didn’t think he would be able to find after his realization that afternoon. 

Ever since that night at the river, Ivar and Alfred had become something else to each other, something other than prisoner and captor. It wasn’t friends, but it was something like that. Equals maybe, though that didn’t feel right to Ivar either.

Ivar noticed the change as it happened, and had allowed himself to think that it didn’t mean anything before. He hadn’t expected whatever peace had fallen between them to last after the night at the river, but it had. Alfred must have noticed it too, but neither boy ever commented its existence. It should have been better that way.

The changes it caused were obvious though. Alfred no longer stayed up at night waiting to see if Ivar would fall asleep first and go elsewhere for the night. Similarly, Ivar felt less need to leave his tent to find sleep. Like the day of the rain, Ivar also began to bring Alfred out of the tent and let him walk with Ivar around the camp. Sometimes Ivar would be called for a meeting, or see an issue that needed to be solved that Alfred shouldn’t be around for and he’d send the other boy back to the tent, and Ivar would find him later, usually sitting on Ivar’s bed looking at a book that Ivar might have taken from one of the villages the northmen sacked, or standing over Ivar’s desk looking at the maps. 

The easiest way to describe the change would be to say that both boys were comfortable around each other now. Ivar at least thought that Alfred was comfortable around Ivar now, Ivar though, he thought he felt something else. 

Another change had happened after the afternoon in the rain, and Ivar didn’t think it was wise to ignore it anymore. This wasn’t a feeling that would go away on its on; Ivar had to think of a way to force it out.

Of course, Ivar knew the easiest course of action. Kill the king and Ivar’s problems would die with him. It was the obvious choice as Alfred needed to die anyway, as much as Ivar tried to deny it. But Ivar wasn’t ready for that yet, and watching Alfred across the tent, Ivar did not think he could fix his problem before he really got to taste what his poison was.

As all of the other inconvenient things in Ivar’s life, it had started at the river. 

It had been the first time in a long time that Ivar thought he may have been wrong about something. Ivar had never really felt desire before, never experienced lust. Even when he tried to lay with Margarethe, that slave girl, Ivar had only wanted to fuck her to prove something to himself. Looking back, Ivar thinks that he should have killed her—she had been what first caused division among his brothers. His brothers who all experienced lust so easily and carelessly and found desire in every person they set their eyes on. 

It had never been that way for Ivar. He hadn’t ever considered anyone good enough to warrant his focus in that way. He hadn’t ever found the thought of sex all that appealing before, and with his broken body, Ivar had begun to think that he wasn’t even capable of such things. It was better that way, that lack of sexual desire had allowed Ivar to become smarter, stronger, and more focused than his brothers and peers. Lust was just another weakness, and another craving that demanded to be satisfied and Ivar was better off without it. 

It seemed cruel that this had changed now. Ivar wondered if it was some punishment from a god who’d been displeased when Ivar burnt the letter from Kattegat and refused to return home, because ever since then Ivar had learned what lust felt like and he know understood how it could plague a man’s mind.

Ivar’s feelings must have been lust, or at least lust was the foundation, and if Ivar could satisfy that craving then perhaps it meant that Alfred didn’t need to die for Ivar to feel clarity return to his mind. 

Alfred had his arm perched on his knee. The red scars around his wrists, from the rope that previously bound them, had nearly faded, but even across the tent Ivar could still see their trace. Like the pale scar on Alfred’s brow that had appeared during those early days in the camp, the marks around his wrists might never fade completely. Ivar did not want to leave Alfred with anymore scars.

 

“What are you thinking about?” Alfred’s voice echoed, his head tilted to the side so that he could listen.

 

Ivar was thinking that it felt like it had been years since he had last tried to lay with a person, but Ivar could remember how Margarethe felt under him anyway and all her broken and fearful cries. Ivar was thinking that he did not want it to be that way again.

 

“Come here.” Ivar moved on his bed so that his back was against the wall of the tent, and he waved his hand, motioning Alfred to join him there.

 

Alfred was looking at him skeptically, like he didn’t fully trust that this wouldn’t turn into some trick, but he was standing up anyway. “Why?” Alfred asked when he came to stand a few feet from Ivar’s bed.

 

Ivar made a frustrated sound and slapped his hand against the other side of the bed once, “I’m not going to tell you anything if you keep standing there like an idiot.”

 

With a long suffering sigh, Alfred sat down across from Ivar, and then lifted a brow as if expecting an answer still. Though, his focus soon shifted as he glanced at Ivar’s shoulder and the blue wood ash ink that decorated his arm and chest. 

 

“What is that?” Alfred stared openly, leaning in slightly now so that he could examine the different designs.

 

Ivar felt himself get flustered with this new attention and he almost thought to push Alfred back, but instead he stayed very still. When the feeling had passed, and Ivar had gotten used to this feeling of Alfred’s eyes studying him, Ivar looked down to see which tattoo Alfred spoke of.

 

“The Aegishjalmur,” Ivar said and when Alfred looked up, a frown creasing his face with confusion, Ivar rolled his eyes, “The helm of terror.”

 

Alfred snorted softly and looked back down to study the design again. He had moved closer now, so that his knees were brushing against Ivar’s. When he spoke, his breath felt hot against Ivar’s chest, “I should have expected as much. What about the others?”

 

And Ivar went on to explain the other tattoos as Alfred continued to lean in close and study them. The proximity between them shrank and Ivar found that his voice had gone rougher than before, and his skin felt hot. 

Alfred had yet to touch him though, despite how close the sat now. Alfred would point one of his long fingers at a particular design crossing Ivar’s chest, but he would never go so far as to place his hand on Ivar’s skin. 

Alfred hadn’t looked up either since Ivar had begun explaining the tattoos to him. This allowed Ivar to watch Alfred without fear of getting caught and he admired the studious focus Alfred had while he listened to what Ivar had to say.

 

“You’ve so many scars.” Alfred remarked quietly as Ivar finished explaining the last of the ink. Alfred’s eyes had wandered down from the blue ink to the pale white marks and his hands came so close to touching.

 

It was only then that Alfred seemed to catch himself. He cleared his throat and sat back on the bed. There was a red flush making its way up his neck, and Alfred had his face tilted away, looking back to his bed across the tent like he was thinking of making an escape for it, but made no other move to do so.

 

“Why don’t you look at me?” Ivar asked, and he wished he could have reached out, and wondering why he still hadn’t. 

 

Alfred glanced up, and Ivar thought it would only last a moment, that Alfred would look just to appease Ivar and then look back down at the floor again. But Alfred had looked up and he was watching Ivar now, and he was not looking away. There was the trace of the red flush on his face, but he didn’t look scared of Ivar and maybe that is why Ivar chose that moment to act.

 

“What am I—“ Alfred began to say after a few moments of the two of them staring at each other passed. His words were interrupted when Ivar reached his arm out and place his palm on the back of Alfred’s neck and pulled him forward in a kiss.

 

They met half way and Ivar kept his palm there on Alfred’s neck so that he wouldn’t try to move away too soon. Alfred’s mouth had already been half open from having just been speaking and when their lips met he let out a gasp and Ivar chased after it. He could feel his own skin burning hot, his own blood rushing under his skin. He felt the desperate desire to feel and know that Alfred felt that all too, and as he threaded his fingers in the hair that hung at the back of Alfred’s neck he realized that there was no need to hold him like this to be sure Alfred would not run away, because Alfred, since the moment their lips touched, had not moved.

Alfred had become very still. While Ivar had brought the one hand to his neck, the other was reaching towards Alfred’s waist to hold him there as well and bring Alfred even closer. Ivar felt as if he needed to touch Alfred, but Alfred had gone cold under his hands. Even as Ivar kissed him fiercely, Alfred did not reciprocate the actions at all.

Ivar’s eyes flashed open for only a second to see that Alfred’s were open as well, wide and with a panicked look in them. Ivar slammed his shut and curled his fingers around Alfred’s neck to hold him tighter and returned to the kiss with fierce zeal. He thought if he could make it better, increase the passion, then Alfred would finally join in and reciprocate all of Ivar’s touches and Ivar would know that he really wanted this too. Ivar moved his other hand from Alfred’s waist to his thigh and that was when Alfred finally touched him too.

It was a firm hand set on Ivar’s chest, palm open flat, and Alfred pushed him away.

They only parted an inch or so, as Ivar’s hand on the back of his neck meant he couldn’t get so far away, and the push Alfred gave was so weak, that Ivar might have called in gentle. Ivar opened his eyes though, and kept them open this time. He tried to lean back in to capture Alfred’s mouth again, but as he tried Alfred’s hand on his chest tensed and Ivar was stopped.

 

“No, Ivar—“

 

And Alfred’s voice was quiet, and gentle like the hand still on Ivar’s bare chest and Ivar felt something like panic spread there. His hand on Alfred’s neck slackened and moved to hold the other man’s shoulder.

 

“Why should I stop?” Ivar swallowed thickly, and despite how steady he wanted to keep his voice, it sounded panicked.

 

Alfred took in a quiet sharp breath and Ivar thought he saw something like fear in his eyes. “This isn’t the sort of man you are—“

 

“Why should I stop?” Ivar asked and now it had become a demand and that panic had turned into resentful anger. 

 

Why should he stop when this is all Ivar had been thinking about for days? When he knew if he could just have Alfred once the spell over him would break and Ivar could stop feeling so weak. Why should Ivar stop when he was the one with the power here, when he knew that Alfred would do nothing to stop him if he went back in, took his mouth and finished what he started.

 

“Because I’m asking you to.” Alfred answered in a firm voice, and the hand pressed against Ivar, keeping him away felt strong. 

 

Ivar’s chest rose and fell underneath Alfred’s hand and that rough anger left him. He let go of Alfred’s arm and finally pulled himself away so that they no longer touched. Alfred shifted back, adding a little more distance but he hadn’t gotten up and left Ivar yet and he hadn’t looked away from Ivar though Ivar found he couldn’t bare to look at him.

 

“Why would you ask me that when I know you want it too?” And Ivar knew that Alfred wanted this, he could see it in the other man’s flushed skin and the growing stiffness in his pants, and in all the ways that the two of them had watched each other before. 

 

Alfred breathing stuttered and for a moment he looked like he’d just been caught in some awful act, as if someone had told Alfred a thing that was meant to be his own secret. Alfred swallowed that panic and answered.

 

“I don’t want this, Ivar.”

 

Ivar felt an ugly sneer and turned his head to look away, “Don’t you? Don’t think you can lie to me when I can see the truth.”

 

And Alfred flushed, aware that he was half hard, but he still did not look away from Ivar even though he did not give any defense.

 

Ivar, frustrated by Alfred’s silence and desperate for the answer of why Alfred would push Ivar away, asked again, “Is this because of your god?”

 

Alfred swallowed and shook his head, “Its—its not that, Ivar. Its not anything like that.”

 

“Then what is it? Why shouldn’t I get to kiss you when you’ve got no reason to not want it too?” Ivar demanded and he looked up and his hands itched to touch Alfred again, and when Ivar looked into Alfred’s eyes now, the other boy looked away. “Why are you denying yourself this?”

 

Alfred’s eyes shut as he took in a deep breath that shifted his shoulders. He looked so much more weary now in the way that Ivar knew that if he really did try to kiss Alfred again he wouldn’t be pushed away twice and Alfred would not fight him on the matter again. And Ivar thought victory was so close and he moved away.

 

“Fine.” Ivar glared and turned his gaze across the tent. “Forget this happened. Forget it and go to sleep.”

 

Alfred sighed, but hadn’t moved away yet, “Ivar—“ he voice was apologetic like he could see just how upset Ivar really was, but while he may not have fought Ivar on taking what he wanted, he wasn’t changing his answers either, “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to do—“

 

“I’m asking you, Little King, to sleep.” and Ivar hadn’t meant to sound so bitter, he had meant to sound indifferent to Alfred’s rejection, but instead he sounded like some spurned lover and the only person Ivar felt angry at, was himself. 

He was angry that he ever let himself think that Alfred would have wanted him too, and angry that he wasn’t able to take him anyway. The thought of sleeping with Alfred now, though, when he knew the idea repulsed Alfred so, made Ivar feel sick. He thought of Margarethe again and all her crying and begging and how pathetic Ivar thought she was and Ivar did not want to see Alfred like that.

And for a while Alfred didn’t move from where he sat and Ivar knew that Alfred was trying to find something to say to fix this situation, because the mood between them had changed so much from how it was when they first came into this tent and they both must have wanted things to go back to the way they were before. Alfred looked hurt by the words Ivar said, and the nickname didn’t bring the same blush to Alfred’s face that it usually did, it just made him look sad, like that peace between them that had formed at the river finally shattered.

And then finally Alfred went to stand and got off Ivar’s bed and went to cross the room. The tent felt much darker now that Alfred was so far away and Ivar went to lay on his side and turned so that even in the darkness, he could not make out Alfred’s shape as the boy settled on his own bed.

 

“Ivar,” Alfred said, when he’d finally settled across the tent in his own bed. “Thank you for stopping.”

 

Ivar squeezed his eyes shut and wished he could have walked out of that tent, or have been the sort of man who didn’t stop when Alfred had pushed him away. Had Ivar continued, had Ivar taken Alfred like he wanted too, the new painful feeling in Ivar’s chest wouldn’t be there, and maybe Ivar’s weakness could have finally been severed. 

Kissing Alfred had been a mistake and stopping must have been a mistake too, because those feelings Ivar felt when he watched Alfred during the rain were so much worse now, and Ivar knew that something had to be done about it. The rejection burned him, but Ivar’s own weakness burned brighter and the spark of both flames still remained to be Alfred.


	8. Chapter 8

The kiss had changed everything. In the morning, when Alfred awoke, and Ivar pretended to do the same, though he’d gotten no sleep that night, Alfred fell back into the routine that they always shared as if the kiss had never transpired. Ivar had asked Alfred to forget, and it seemed that he had, but Ivar hadn’t and Ivar couldn’t forget.

So Ivar ignored it. After the kiss, Ivar knew he had to make a change. In the days that followed that night Ivar began to order Alfred to stay in the tent during the day so that the two of them wouldn’t walk around the camp together. He had Alfred move out of Ivar’s tent and into a smaller one, almost all the way across camp. Sometimes days would pass and Ivar did not speak to Alfred at all, and while it sometimes looked like Alfred might say something to him, he never did. He just looked at Ivar in a sad sort of way and accepted this new change just like he had with the others. 

 

“Where is your shadow?” Hvitserik was leaning against a tree by the river as Ivar came over to check on the ships. They were sending the sick back to Kattegat, along with some of the treasures taken in Wessex that could be sold in exchange for supplies that would be needed to start a settlement on some of the land the Saxons gave the heathen army.

 

Ivar looked up, glaring. Any mention of Alfred and him together just reminded Ivar of how Alfred had pushed him away and rejected his touch. He didn’t need those reminders, especially from his brother. 

“I don't know what you mean.”

 

“Your shadow,” Hvitserik emphasized pushing off of the tree and taking lazy steps towards Ivar and the boats. “The one who’ve you got following at your heels like a dog. The one warming your bed. That shadow.”

Anger flashed bright inside Ivar, and yet he forced it down so that Hvitserik wouldn’t see. “Are you jealous of my shadow?”

 

Hvitserik scoffed as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I think its strange that this Saxon boy who you told us all you were going to destroy is still breathing, and now has a place at your side.”

 

Ivar looked away, only half listening to his brother as he moved around the ship, making sure that no one had removed any of the valuable items that were going to be sold when the ship made it back to Kattegat. 

At least it appeared that this is what Ivar was doing, in his mind he was thinking through the words Hvitserik was saying and wondering what his brother was trying to do. Ivar didn’t think Hvitserik was so stupid to have purposefully try to anger Ivar, at least not with an ulterior motive for doing so. It was easier then to disconnect the words Hvitserik said, and focus more on what they meant. 

“Ah, so you are jealous. I’m sorry I haven’t been spending enough time with you Hvitserik—“

 

“Come off it, Ivar.” Hvitserik scowled, taking a step to meet Ivar’s. “You know what I mean. How much longer are you planning on drawing this out? We’ve had the king for over a month now and the saxons aren’t going to give into our demands for much longer. We should kill him now and then move forward with your plan.”

 

Ivar narrowed his eyes, he used his crutch and walked past his brother, knocking into his shoulder as he went around the other side of the ship. Hvitserik followed. 

 

“Everyone wants war now.” Ivar muttered darkly.

 

“It should be now, shouldn’t it?” Hvitserik said as he dodged past a chest to reach Ivar who was making his way back to the dock. “We need to attack before the Saxons decide to do it first and gain the advantage. If we attack now they won’t see it coming—we could end the fighting in a few days and then take what we want and go home.”

 

“If you want to go home,” Ivar growled, turning to face Hvitserik and leaning in, “Then go home. Ubbe will be waiting for you, you can go back to being his lapdog instead of mine. I told you I have a plan so stop coming up with ones of your own.”

 

Hvitserik stared. His face morphed from startled to angry. He leaned in and spat, “This is your plan. This is the plan you told me about that day we took the queen, and then you told me that we’d be doing the same one with the Saxon king.”

 

Ivar bristled and made a dismissive motion as he went from the dock to the rocky shore, “I told you what you needed to know, Hvitserik. If you want to go back home to Kattegat and join the other traitors and cowards then do that. But if you’re going to stay here, you’re going to listen to me.”

 

Hvitserik laughed, hands placed on the side of the ship as he leaned over it to address Ivar, “You forget, little brother, that we’re supposed to be equals here.” Hvitserik’s words turned venomous, “I’m happy to follow your lead, but that was when your plans made sense.”

 

“We’re not equals, Hvitserik,” Ivar said turning and looking up at him, “We’ve never been. That’s why you follow my lead, my plans, because you can’t think of any good ones on your own.”

 

Hvitserik’s lips curled as he pushed his hands against the rails of the ship and stalked towards the dock. “If you want a Saxon pet, then take one of the other slaves we’ve got.” Hvitserik said to him as he came forward, “The king, though, is for the slaughter. Thats what we agreed on, thats why we’re still here. You’ve forgotten that.”

 

Ivar had a comeback on the tip of his tongue, but as he watched the angry fall of his brother’s chest, pieces began to fall together. “You’ve told him this, haven’t you?”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“Alfred, the king,” Ivar felt his lips curl as the realization fell into place. That afternoon in the rain, Ivar always thought of it and wondered what had motivated Alfred’s sudden urgency to talk about his death, to make sure that Ivar would spare his mother and try to convince him that Ivar could still make peace with Wessex even after Alfred died. “You told him that I planned to kill him soon.”

 

Hvitserik crossed his arms again, holding himself at a bold posture, “I told him that he was going to die soon, so what? Its true—he already knew it—“

 

“That wasn’t—“ Ivar forced himself to control the sudden surge of anger and his hands seized as he tried not to reach for his knife and strike his brother down. If Hvitserik had never told Alfred that then maybe Alfred wouldn’t have been so quick to push Ivar away. When Ivar spoke again his voice was quiet, soft, and dangerous. “Who else did you tell then? Who else thinks we’re killing the Saxon soon?”

 

“I didn’t need to tell anyone, everyone already knows. You think everyone else is so stupid, Ivar, but the rest of us can see that the time to either attack the Saxons or leave this land is now. You’re the only one who doesn’t see it—we’ve already won and you’re still acting like we’ve got some big battle left to fight.” Hvitserik shook his head, and when he looked at Ivar it was with revulsion, “Wage your fucking wars, Ivar, but if you want to be an earl you need to start caring about your people instead of your own fucking games.”

 

Ivar shook his head, “That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t need anybody. I don’t need to care about anybody.”

 

Hvitserik gave a heavy sigh, and now he didn’t look disgusted, but just sad. “And thats why nobody cares about you. See how much longer our people follow you when they realize that you’ve got no plans on making peace—about keeping your promises— they don’t love you, they barely respect you, and we all went along with the things you said because we were winning. Well we’ve won now Ivar, we avenged father, and now all we have to do is end the Saxon kings and we can go home, and you know that when we do no one will fucking care who Ivar-the-Boneless was. You’ll just be another cripple.”

Ivar slammed his fist into Hvitserik’s nose, and then went for the knife at his belt. Hvitserik surged back, eyes widening as he saw him go for the blade. Hvitserik’s eyes narrowed, shoulders dropping as he rammed forward and tackled Ivar to the ground before he could bring the knife against him.

Hvitserik rolled on top of him and landed two good hits, but Ivar was stronger and he didn’t need his legs to win. He wrapped one hand around the back of Hvitserik’s neck and slammed his face into the rocks beside Ivar’s head. Hvitserik collapsed forward and gasped, blood gushing down his face. Ivar crawled forward and put his hand on he nape of Hvitserik’s neck, while he was still recovering, and slammed his face into the rocks again. 

The brothers were starting to get the attention of those near by and Ivar could hear the crowd forming at the slope above the beach, but no one dared to intervene on the fight. Hvitserik sucked in a gasping breath and finally turned on his back, swiping a hand at Ivar as he tried to put enough distance between them so that he could be allowed to recover. His face was dripping with blood, it mingled with his spit as he sucked in breathes and tried to crawl away. Ivar followed him, grabbing the rocky ground to pull himself forward, and then he went to grab the knife at his belt again.

Hvitserik lunged forward, a rock in his hand and slammed it into Ivar’s temple. His head wrung and he blindly reached to grab Hvitserik’s wrist to stop him from doing it again. They grappled for dominance until Ivar finally found his way on top and grabbed a bloody rock from the ground beneath them and struck Hvitserik’s face with it, once, twice—

 

“Stop this!” It was the shield maiden, Siggy, he run forward from the slope and pushed her weight against Ivar’s side to knock him off of Hvitserik. 

 

Ivar, so lost in his rage, didn’t even think to stop her. He felt himself roll on his side, sharp rocks digging into his skin, and when he opened his eyes he saw Siggy kneeling beside Hvitserik, hands hovering over his face like she wasn’t sure what to do, and she began to shout orders to those who were still watching on the slope. 

And then Siggy shifted and the hand that had been blocking Hvitserik’s face moved and Ivar saw the swollen, red, bloody skin that was there. Blood still poured. Hvitserik did not move.

Reality dawned on Ivar now, just like it had when he killed Sigurd so long ago. His breath was stuck in his throat as he watched Siggy carefully try to stop what bleeding she could. On the slope, people finally began to move, and several came down to try and help Siggy with Hvitserik. Not one even looked at Ivar.

 

“Is he breathing?” Ivar did not recognize the choked sound of his own voice as he tried to push himself and crawl towards his brother. “Is he fucking breathing?”

 

A hand came down on Ivar and Ivar turned, already holding the wrist in his hand, keeping the assaulter there. He froze when he recognized Alfred, and even then it took a moment for Ivar to remember to let go of the his wrist.

 

“I need to get to him.” Ivar was saying, as he tried to crawl forward again. He couldn’t even see Hvitserik anymore, the crowd around him had grown too thick. Alfred kneeled beside Ivar on the bloody stones and set a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t—he isn’t dead.”

 

“Come on,” Alfred spoke gently, keeping his hand on Ivar’s shoulder while the other went over the hand Ivar was using to pull himself forward on the beach, “This isn’t the time.”

 

“I didn’t kill him.” Ivar heard himself say, voice breaking. Alfred pried Ivar’s hand off of the rock and then moved to put Ivar’s arm over his shoulder. “Is he fucking dead?”

 

“I don’t know.” Alfred’s voice was quiet, as he got Ivar to keep his arm over Alfred’s shoulder and then went to stand. He grimaced at the weight he was supporting and Ivar felt his hand curl around Alfred’s shoulder to keep from falling. This was the first time Ivar had no desire to look at Alfred. He couldn’t look away from his brother. 

 

“I can’t see him. Take me to Hvitserik.”

 

“This isn’t the time.” Alfred said again and Ivar tightened his hand around Alfred’s skin brutally as he tried to convince him otherwise. Alfred grimaced, but did not let go and did not turn them back to the beach. 

 

Alfred took Ivar to his tent, and the entire way they were not stopped once. People were going past them, shouting voices echoing as they all swarmed Hvitserik’s bloody body.

 

“He isn’t dead.” Ivar repeated when Alfred went to push Ivar down onto the bed. “I didn’t kill him. I didn’t hit hard enough, I didn’t mean—“

 

Alfred had gone to sit against the chest beside the bed, like he so often would do before. Ivar looked at him now, and at the blood that was staining Alfred’s skin.

 

“Is that yours?” Ivar asked, mind seizing up, and panic spread through him built on the worry that Alfred may have gotten hurt too.

 

Alfred looked down at himself confused and then saw the blood staining his shirt and skin. His face grew solemn and pressed his lips together. “It’s yours. Or its…” he shook his head and stood back up, walking past Ivar and to the basin of water. Alfred worked silently, grabbing some cloth and dunking it in the water before turning again and going back to Ivar, “It’s your blood.” He said it now as a fact, but Ivar knew what he meant to say before. The blood could have belonged to Hvitserik’s.

 

“Go to the beach and see what is happening.” Ivar ordered as Alfred moved to kneel in front of Ivar and began pressing the wet cloth to Ivar’s face. “Find someone who can tell me what is happening to Hvitserik.”

 

“No.” Alfred’s voice was final. He focused on cleaning the blood from Ivar’s face, but it felt as if he was not looking at Ivar at all. Alfred was angry.

 

“No?” Ivar repeated. He growled and pushed himself forward with his hand so that his head almost knocked against Alfred’s. “Get me someone who can tell me whats happening to Hvitserik.”

 

“No.” Alfred moved back and tossed the bloody rag on the bed as he rose to stand. 

 

Ivar grabbed that rag and threw it at Alfred’s head, but Alfred had begun pacing and it missed. Alfred’s posture was stiff, and before Ivar could repeat the order and this time with a real threat attached, Alfred turned towards him, face rippling with anger.

 

“I’m not getting you someone to tell you whats happened. You know what’s happened. You did this.” Alfred shook his head and paced the room again, only to turn and shout, “What makes you think you deserve to know—what could you have been thinking? Are you so desperate to kill that you turned on your own brother?”

 

Ivar recoiled. That raging feeling in his blood passed and turned cold. It was like when he first saw Hvitserik’s bloody face again, and Ivar faced the reality of what he had done.

 

“I didn’t mean to kill him.” Ivar’s voice sounded weak in his own ears. He shook his head, “I didn’t kill him, he’s not dead. I didn’t mean to—It was a mistake.“

 

“A mistake?” Alfred gawked. He ran his hand through his hair and pulled at the strands, “You aren’t some unthinking animal, you knew what you were doing.” Alfred’s hand fell and he looked up and pressed his lips together and was quiet for a long while. He shook his head, “What could you have thought you were doing?”

 

“He provoked me!” Ivar shouted, his body was shaking from the cold, he could feel blood falling from his face, “He made me do it. He—he—he knew what he was doing. He was trying to kill me too.”

 

Alfred looked at Ivar with revulsion, glancing at his face for only a moment before looking away again, as if staring any longer would have made him vomit. Alfred spoke so quietly that it could have been meant for himself, “You should have stopped. You should have ended it.”

 

Ivar felt panic filling his chest again, just like before, he leaned forward and shouted, “He wanted me dead! I did what I had to. I’d do it again, he would have killed me if I hadn’t.”

 

Alfred’s anger surged, “Stop telling yourself these lies! You can’t justify this, Ivar!”

 

“Why are you defending him?” Ivar wished he could stand, wished he didn’t feel so small right now. He couldn’t though, and so he continued to shout, “Why are you taking his side? He wanted you dead—I’ve been the one protecting you, you should be on my side.”

 

“Protecting me?” Alfred balked, stepping back. He wrapped his arms around himself and put even more distance between himself and Ivar, and Ivar could feel the disgust. “This isn’t about me—don’t justify this using me, and don’t try and lie to me about it either! You think I’m on either of your sides? I’m not. You killed my father, Ivar. You killed my brother, you sent me his head. You’ve been planning on killing me since the moment I was crowned.”

 

“If I wanted you dead, you would be dead!” Ivar curled his fists at he spat. “If it was up to the rest of them you would have been killed long ago. I am the reason you breath. I am the reason you aren’t being eaten by worms just like your fucking brother and father. You owe your life to me!”

 

Alfred stepped back, a still look passing over him, and that anger turned to hatred. “I owe you nothing.”

 

Ivar laughed, spitting up blood as he did, “Then why are you here? Why haven’t you ran away while the camp is distracted? You know your life belongs to me. I saved the life of your fucking whore mother, and now you owe me yours, and you’re too much of a fool to try and get away.”

Alfred was holding his hands into fists as his sides, body pulled taut like a bow. His hands shook and then he let them go, and the bow was loosened but no arrow was let go. Alfred looked at Ivar with antipathy and turned his head, “Ivar look at yourself. Look at what you’ve done. I’d give my life if it meant my brother could live, and you’ve just killed yours senselessly. How many more people do you have to kill before you see that this is not the way? I’ll gladly continue being the fool if it means that I never become a man like you.”

Ivar lips curled as he readied another curse at Alfred, but Alfred did not wait to hear it. His frame hanging heavy, Alfred turned without a second glance out of the tent, and Ivar was left alone.


	9. Chapter 9

In the silence, Ivar waited. 

He shouldn’t have. He needed to take action, go out and speak to his men and reassert his authority and make some defense of his actions he took at the river. He knew that Hvitserik was right, Ivar was not loved by the northmen, and he knew that they would turn on him if they thought they could. Ivar had to remind them that they couldn’t, that they still needed him. Yet, Ivar did not leave his tent.

He took up the wet bloody cloth and tries to clean the blood on his hands—Hvitserik’s blood—but the stains would not leave his skin. Ivar thought that someone, one of Hvitserik’s allies perhaps, would come to Ivar’s tent soon and demand justice, and he felt that this is what he was waiting for. 

No one came though, not until the sun had started to fall and Ivar finally heard a voice approaching his tent. And then he heard Alfred’s, and both voices spoke low, just outside the door of the tent. Alfred must have stayed outside Ivar’s tent all day waiting for the consequences of Ivar murdering another brother to transpire. 

Ivar held his body tense as he tried to make out the words that were being spoken. He felt his hand itch for a weapon or for his crutch so that he could at least stand when they came to take him. He reached for neither and sat quietly, listening and waiting.

The voices went quiet and Ivar heard one walk away, and then he heard the flap of his tent pull open and Alfred stepped through. The detached, disappointed look that Alfred had before still remained. He hardly looked at Ivar as he entered, only went to stand very near to the door and crossed his arms. Alfred pressed his lips together.

 

“Your brother still lives.”

Ivar shut his eyes and his head dropped. He took in a deep breath and let the relief, he didn’t know he was waiting for, wash over him. Ivar had spent so much of that day thinking of what it meant now that Hvitserik was dead, and how his people would not forgive him for a murder of a brother twice. At least now there was hope that Ivar would not be abandoned totally by them.

 

“What are the people saying?” Ivar asked when the relief passed and he could think clearly about his plan moving forward. He needed to know if there was still talks of retaliation against him; if there was Ivar had to work quickly to assure the northmen that he was still their natural leader and deserved their allegiance. 

 

Alfred’s look darkened, “You aren’t going to ask how your brother is?”

 

Ivar looked up, narrowing his gaze. He heard the accusation in Alfred’s voice and he remembered their fight and Alfred’s betrayal. 

 

“You said he lived.” Ivar answered defensively.

 

Alfred muttered under his breath, shaking his head and now Ivar couldn’t tell if Alfred with disappointed with Ivar, or disappointed with himself. 

 

His voice was flat when he answered, “Your people are reacting how you think they would. Its not in your favor. Not that you deserve it to be.”

 

Ivar gritted his teeth. He figured that the people would be against him. “And you?”

 

“You know what my feelings are.”

 

And Ivar did. 

There was nothing left for Alfred to say, and while Ivar wished that Alfred could forget all the things Ivar said during their argument before, he knew that he wouldn’t and so Ivar had nothing to say either. Alfred left the tent and Ivar knew that things could never return to how they were before and Ivar wanted to think that this was for the best anyway. 

 

The Northmen hated Ivar. This was something he knew before, the northmen had always hated Ivar, but before they had also respected him, feared him. 

The northmen no longer respected Ivar now though, not after the fight with Hvitserik, who was still recovering from his injuries. When Ivar walked by he was met with glares of derision and hate. He’d killed one brother before and they had looked past that because they were in times of war—what Ivar did to Hvitserik would not be excused in the same way, even if Hvitserilk still did live. The only reason now that Ivar was not put on trial by his people was because, while they neither loved, nor respected him, they still did fear him. Alfred, Ivar knew, felt neither. 

Two weeks passed and Ivar saw nothing of Alfred. Ivar never chose to seek the other out during this time. He also felt as if he hated Alfred some, though mostly he just felt betrayed. 

First hated, then rejected and now betrayed by the boy king. Ivar had protected Alfred all this time—if he hadn’t he and Hvitserik never would have fought and Ivar’s people never would have hated him. Ivar wanted to say then that everything that transpired was Alfred’s fault. Ivar wished that was such an easy thing to believe, and maybe if all of this had happened when the war first began he could have believed this, or even if it all had happened during those first days Ivar held Alfred prisoner in the camp, but now, after so much time had passed, Ivar knew he could not trick himself into believing his own lies. Not anymore.

As for Hvitserik, Ivar had not seen him since their fight at the river. His last memory was of Alfred pulling Ivar away as he looked back at Hvitserik’s blood soak, swollen face. No one told Ivar of Hvitserik’s current condition. When Ivar approached, people moved away, sneering. Instead, Ivar learned of Hvitserik’s current state because while Ivar no longer attended meetings with his commanders, he had heard that Hvitserik now did. This at least allowed Ivar to reason that Hvitserik was still of sound mind and that Ivar hadn’t truly bashed his brain in with the rock as he thought he might have. 

Knowing that Hvitserik had begun to really recover, Ivar thought his brother might have tried to make a move against him. The northmen hadn’t killed Ivar yet because of that fear they had of him, but Hvitserik would not feel that way, and Ivar imagined his brother might have planned some sort of coup, or lead a charge to put Ivar on trial for betrayal, but that never happened. Not that such actions were necessary. Ivar knew that his spot as the commander of the Heathen Army was now no longer his. Ivar was a pariah in the camp—and that victory that had been so close at hand, had disappeared completely. Ivar had lost a war that was practically won and he only had himself to blame. 

And now all of Ivar’s fears had come to fruition, and everything Hvitserik had told him would happen was true. 

Lost in the complete isolation at the camp, Ivar thought of the letter Ubbe sent so long ago and Ivar thought it wasn’t too late to go back to Kattegat and find a new war to fight in. Ivar knew that finding those willing to join him in such a fight would be impossible, but Ivar thought he could ally himself with Harald Finehair and his brother Halfdan who would certainly be eager to wage a war against Lagertha. If Ivar could avenge his mother, and reclaim Kattegat for the sons of Ragnar then maybe people would forget this fight with Hvitserik and Ivar can become the man he once was. 

The passing days were filled with Ivar, on his own, planning this new strategy. There would be a ship coming to their war camp soon, bound for Kattegat and Ivar would need to join the crew bound home. Trouble arose though when Ivar heard that Hvitserik planned on boarding that ship too, which meant that this war in Wessex was coming to a close and Ivar knew that a decision must have been made about Alfred’s life.

That is what motivated the thought. It was foolish to consider, and yet Ivar did anyway. He thought if Alfred stayed in the camp here he would be killed, so Ivar should take Alfred with him to Kattegat. 

It had been so long since Ivar had seen Alfred that seeking him out in the camp, and actually finding him became a surprise. Ivar remembered how they had parted last and how much Alfred seemed to hate Ivar, but it had not always been that way, and Ivar thought when Alfred’s other choice was death then Alfred would see reason and join Ivar again.

Alfred was sitting beside a slowly dying fire when Ivar found him. A shield maiden was near by posing as a guard, and Ivar dismissed her. She wouldn’t have obeyed Ivar if it had been any other order, but Ivar could see that she neither cared to watch Alfred or listen in on the conversation Ivar planned to have with him and so she left and Ivar walked towards the fire and Alfred.

Alfred heard Ivar’s approach and looked up. His brows drew together and he grimaced, but made no objections when Ivar came over and sat at the log bench beside him. The distance between them felt palpable and Ivar left a wide space between the two of them on that bench feeling that if he came any closer he’d be struck with discomfort. 

Alfred spoke first, doing so as soon as Ivar had sat himself down and before he could open his mouth to say the piece he had planned.

“You’re people are planning on leaving this land soon,” He said and his grimace grew deep as he stared at the slowly dying embers. “They’ve said they’ll return me to my mother soon. I know that they mean to return my corpse.”

 

What Alfred said wasn’t quite right. The northmen had no plans to leave Wessex completely. Ivar knew through listening when those thought he could not hear, that Hvitserik planned on having some settle in the lands they’d got in the negotiations this months and that they planned on threatening a war to convince the Saxons to settle for peace after Alfred was dead. But that was not the important part of what Alfred said, the important part was that Alfred would be killed soon and that at least was true. 

 

“It doesn’t have to be that way.” Ivar said, turning his body towards Alfred and leaning in some as they spoke.

 

Alfred scoffed, looking down he shook his head, “I very much believe it does.”

 

“No,” Ivar reached his hand out, but stopped short of touching Alfred. His hand dropped and returned to his side, but Alfred had seen him reach out and his brow furrowed. Ivar cleared his throat and looked around to be sure that they would not be overheard, “I plan on going back to Kattegat. You’ll come with me.”

 

Alfred’s brows rose nearly to his hair line, he sat back and ran his hand through his hair. Ivar watched closely waiting for a response, for a thanks for coming up with a way to save Alfred’s life again, waiting for Alfred to reach out and break the awfulness between them and let things go back to how they were before. 

Alfred shook his head, “Ivar, you can’t be serious.”

 

Ivar recoiled, “Why not? Are you really considering not taking this offer?”

 

“Offer?” Alfred scoffed, “What offer, Ivar? You’ve just ordered me to come along and leave my country.”

 

“And you’ll live.” Ivar said, staggered by how Alfred was reacting to this offer. “Who cares what fucking country you’re in you’ll be alive.”

 

“I can’t abandon my people—“

 

“You already have.” Ivar hisses leaning in as someone passes them by, “And what purpose do you even serve them if you die here? I’m giving you a way out.”

 

“You’re giving me a means to run away.” And Alfred’s voice was consumed with indignant, righteous anger. His body was held taught, as if he was restraining the urge to lunge at Ivar. His hands were balled into fists. “And to run away with you…”

 

“Me.” Ivar said the word bitterly, his own anger coming forward like the rolling clouds of a storm. That was the problem wasn’t it. Alfred had no qualms about running, he just didn’t want it to be with Ivar. “I see how it is.”

 

Alfred’s brow wrinkled, face drawn in confusion that soon cleared as he understood what Ivar was getting at. “No, you don’t. This isn’t about you—“

 

“Isn’t it?” Ivar leaned forward to hiss, “You think you are too good for me. You’d rather die than run away with me—thats why you won’t take this offer, thats why you pushed me away—“

 

And Ivar fell silent because he never meant to bring up that night in the tent and the kiss. The words were innocuous enough that Alfred might never have known what Ivar truly meant if he had continued speaking. But Ivar had fallen silent, trying to swallow the words before they could escape, and Alfred had seen the brief look of panic on Ivar’s face when he said the words and he must have known what Ivar meant in this empty pause. 

Ivar watched the change of expressions pass Alfred’s face when he realized what Ivar meant. It looked surprised at first, and then maybe embarrassed or worried and Ivar thought it would stay like that for another moment, and maybe thats why Ivar didn’t say anything yet, because he wanted to keep that expression on Alfred’s face a while longer, because it was the first time in a long time that Alfred had looked at Ivar with anything other than disinterest or contempt. That look didn’t last long though, and maybe it only ever lasted a second to begin with, but when it changed it could not be ignored. It was the sort of anger that felt like fire, and the words Alfred said burned.

 

“You think thats why I pushed you away?” Alfred’s voice rolled in like thunder, building up to something truly vicious. This was the first time Ivar thought that Alfred was not in complete control of his feelings. “You think I wouldn’t let you kiss me—that I would let you use me because I think I’m better than you?”

“Keep your voice down—“ Ivar hissed, no one was around, but Ivar felt exposed at the words Alfred spoke. It made Ivar wish he could make Alfred feel just as exposed, and it brought the worst parts of Ivar out, “And what other reason would you have, Little King, or are you going to pretend that you didn’t wish I would ignore your objections?”

 

“Go fuck yourself,” Alfred pushed off the log and started walking away. He turned on his heel and stomped back over to Ivar, before Ivar could think to go after him. His face was red, anger painting him so, “Have you ever thought of how I might have felt being kissed by you?”

 

Ivar’s face flushed, but his own indignation kept him from feeling anything but anger towards Alfred. He would have said something biting, but Alfred spoke again before Ivar could.

 

“Did you ever think for one moment that I wouldn’t want to be kissed by the man who kidnapped and threatened my mother—who destroyed my home? The man who killed my father and brother?” Alfred’s voice was wild and breathless, and his eyes burned with intensity, and Ivar went silent. “How do you think I felt about all of that Ivar? How do you think I felt knowing that I wanted the man who murdered my father to take me to his bed? That I would have let you do whatever you wanted, knowing full well that I was only ever king—that I was only ever in that position—because you murdered my brother?”

 

Ivar felt the same panic enter him that he had felt when Hvitserik laid bloody on the ground. He couldn’t even take a moment to enjoy the fact that Alfred had admitted he wanted Ivar too, because all Ivar could feel in that moment was the panic. It was the panic that accompanied guilt for actions Ivar needed to convince himself were justified. “That was war—“

 

“I don’t give a fuck about war.” Alfred’s emotions were laid raw, and it was no longer just anger in his voice, but fear and pain as well. “I had become friends with the man who killed my family. And when you kissed me—“ Alfred’s hands shook and he looked away, “When you kissed me all I could see was the severed head of my brother that you sent me.”

 

“I—“ Ivar’s voice shook, just like Alfred’s hands. “I didn’t know you then.”

 

Alfred’s shoulders fell and he looked defeated, “That isn’t the point.” He voice was soft, so quiet that Ivar strained to hear, “How could you have kissed me knowing what you had done?”

And Ivar was without words, and the ice in his blood spread and left him feeling frozen and without defense. 

 

“You only think of yourself.” And Alfred’s words were stronger now, angrier just like before. He looked at Ivar one last time, “And now you come to me saying that we should run away like that will fix anything. Like I could run away with my brother’s killer.”

 

And everything had started to feel to much like the day on the river when Ivar had almost killed Hvitserik. It was the feeling that accompanied the knowledge that Ivar truly had no one who cared about him. The knowledge did not make the ice in Ivar’s veins hurt any less, but he at least knew how to ignore it now.

“My mistake. I forgot who I was dealing with. I thought you would realize that I am the only ally you have here in this camp, but you prefer your own self righteousness over your life.”

 

Alfred scoffed under his breath, “You want me to apologize?”

 

“I want you to see things how they are.”

 

“I am seeing things how they are,” Alfred responded without hesitation, “What bothers you is that I am not seeing them the way you do. You may say that you are my only ally in this camp, Ivar, but you must remember that now I’m the only ally here that you have now. What you did is not something your people are going to look past.”

 

“We will see.” Ivar said tersely, going to move past Alfred he stepped back so that Ivar would not brush against him. That brought back a sting of rejection, made worse by knowing what Alfred said was right. And as Ivar moved further away from the dying fire, all he could think about was that if Alfred could say one thing to bridge this divide, if Alfred could just make the first move towards forgiveness, Ivar would move earth to make it better. He just couldn’t make the first move.

“I am not your ally either, Ivar.” Alfred said when Ivar’s back was to him; and Ivar shut his eyes, unable to breath. “Not after this.”

 

And that was the last thing either man would say to each other for many years.

 

 

It would be another three days—the day before Ivar planned to leave on one of the ships back to Kattegat—that he had heard that the plans to kill Alfred had been cemented. The execution would take place two days after Ivar planned to leave, and then if plans worked as expected, the rest of the vikings who did not wish to settle in the lands given to them in Wessex, would return back home.

The news had not been a surprise, but it still made Ivar feel sick when he heard it. Alfred did not deserve an execution as a prisoner, he deserved to die fighting in battle, or in a tactical defeat, or he deserved to die old surrounded by friends and family. The manner of death planned for Alfred was beneath him, and Ivar told himself that this was why it upset him so.

A lie, of course, but Ivar had ground comfortable in his lies now. They were better than the truth.

The truth was that Ivar had thought of what Alfred had said to him at the dying fire every night since it passed. Why hadn’t Ivar just apologized? He had so much he could have apologized for and maybe if he just apologized for one of those things Alfred would be going with him to Kattegat. 

Alfred could have lived. Ivar could have secured that Alfred could live, and as the nights passed Ivar realized that he had a thousand of opportunities to have secured this. It wasn’t just that day at the dying fire. It was the first night at the river, or the rainy day at the tent, or the night Ivar had kissed Alfred only to be pushed away, and then there were so many other moments where Ivar had thought that he didn’t want Alfred to die and he still had the power to set him free. But Ivar never did—and perhaps that was because of power, or perhaps it was because of how doing so might have hurt Ivar’s reputation, and then Ivar also thought that maybe Ivar had never thought to just set Alfred free because Ivar did not want to let him go. 

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Ivar knew that when Alfred died, it would be Ivar’s fault. And Ivar would have killed the third king of Wessex, and he still would not have won the war. 

Ivar no longer had the power to order the northmen to set Alfred free and let him live. Ivar had no power, or friends, or love at all, and he could feel what ever bit of humanity he once had fading. And as Ivar looked at the long boat that would have brought him back to Kattegat to reclaim his home and avenge his mother, he knew that before that humanity left him completely he had to make things right.

That is why Ivar found himself going to Hvitserik’s tent. 

Hvitserik looked worse than Ivar had let himself imagine. His face was still swollen and red, and two teeth were missing from his mouth and his left eye was covered by a black patch. He and Ivar sat across from each other, a table sitting between them.

“You want me to set the Saxon King free?” Hvitserik repeated, tone more venomous than Ivar remembered. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

 

He thought that not so long ago it was Ivar sitting at the other side of that table and Hvitserik who was making requests. Hvitserik had taken up command of the men, he was now their commander. Ivar was just a cripple who haunted the camp, hated by his own blood.

 

“Because if you do you’ll never have to see me again.” Ivar said plainly, his voice staying indifferent, as it had when he entered the tent and first gave his request. “I give Kattegat to you. I’ll never step foot in our lands ever again.”

 

Hvitserik’s brow creased and he watched Ivar distrustfully, “I’m supposed to believe that? You think I’d really believe you’d give up that chance to be Earl of Kattegat and kill Lagertha, and for what? Some Saxon?”

 

Ivar nodded his head, shrugging indifferently, “There is nothing for me in the north. I’ve no desire to be with people who do not appreciate me.”

 

“Thats what you’re looking for then, somewhere to be appreciated?” 

 

And there was something in Hvitserik’s tone that made Ivar flinch. He felt as if he was being mocked, and Hvitserik’s taunt of him just being seen as a cripple came back to him.

 

“You tried to kill me, just like our brother Sigurd.” Hvitserik began speaking again, tone more serious than Ivar had ever heard it sounding before, “The only reason I haven’t killed you is because of the blood we share.”

 

Ivar would have said before that the only reason Hvitserik hadn’t killed him was because he wouldn’t be able to, but now Ivar only focused on the word brother.

 

“Then you see why I think you’d prefer it if I stayed for away from you from now on.” Ivar answered, his indifference peppered with his own discomfort. “Hand the king back over to his people—avoid another war altogether—and go back home to Kattegat and tell everyone that the loss of the war was on me. Tell them I died in this land, tell them whatever the fuck you want—“

 

“As long as I let the Saxon live.” Hvitserik finished thoughtfully. Ivar had to avoid his gaze, instead staring at the map on the table. “Why do you care if he lives?”

 

Ivar scoffed, “I don’t care. I think killing a king in this way is cowardly. It is not what Father would have wanted. What point does killing some foolish boy king serve? It would be like killing a child—there is no glory in that. Give him back to his people, let them keep peace with us for a few years and then we’ll wage war again, and when you win you will be able to say you slayed a real king.”

 

And for a moment Hvitserik looked to be considering this, and Ivar thought that maybe this conversation would be over and he could leave this tent and leave his humanity and caring behind forever. 

 

“And where will you go?” Hvitserik asked, voice going quiet again.

 

Ivar glanced up at him, before looking away, “What does it matter, you will never see me again.”

 

“Good.” Hvitserik said, but the hate Ivar expected to hear was not fully there, though there was certainly hate. “You leaving is the best thing that could happen to our family. You’ve torn it apart—you killed Sigurd, you’ve turned Ubbe and Bjorn against me—you’ve never been a brother to me at all, just a monster our mother gave birth too.”

 

Ivar felt anger ripple through him and he stared down at the table to keep the impulse of vengeance far away. Though, without the ability to give this anger an outlet, Ivar was forced to think about whether he was really angry at Hvitserik, or if his anger was directed at himself. 

And Hvitserik moved in his chair, and he was looking away now too, and the expression on his face was bitter, and angry, and then there was that other emotion that Ivar could not name, but it made Hvitserik look uncomfortable, and there was almost guilt on his thin brow.

 

“I’ve not always been a brother to you either.” Hvitserik spoke quietly, eyes looking elsewhere and face impassive, “I always wondered why you’ve hated the rest of us so much. Why you’ve always been so awful. I couldn’t think why you would have tried to kill two brothers—I don't think you ever considered us brothers at all. You never cared for us as such, and I don’t think I ever cared for you as one either.”

 

And Ivar kept quiet and that anger still played beneath his skin. What was the point of this little speech, other than to remind Ivar of how much he’d always been hated? Ivar only endured it so that Hvitserik would agree to the deal and Alfred could live and then Ivar would leave this place and never return.

 

“Whats your point?” Ivar said, voice rough.

For a moment it looked like Hvitserik didn’t know what his point was either and then he began to speak again, “You were always such a monster that I think I forgot. Father was gone, and Mother seemed to stop caring about us. We were always on our own. The rest of is raised each other, but not you. Bjorn and Ubbe tried—but that was not enough, and now they’re gone, and it was just you and me.” Hvitserik had the look of guilt cross his face and he looked down, “I think I forgot that I was your older brother too. Maybe you were a monster, but you were also my little brother and I should have looked out for you, and maybe if I had we would not be in this position now.”

 

This feeling of discomfort was so alien to Ivar. It was not like the discomfort he’d felt before with Alfred, this was something very different, and Ivar did not feel like Ivar the Boneless or Ivar the Cripple, he felt like Ivar the boy, who’s childhood was gone and who’s family had left him.

 

“Shouldn’t this please you? You’re commander of the largest army our people have ever made.” Ivar spoke like he wanted Hvitserik to take his words back. He’d rather Hvitserik mocked him or threatened him than this quiet feeling of honesty.

 

“Your army.” Hvitserik spoke and that look on his face was gone and it was very serious again, “Not that it matters. The war is over, and you’ve made your decisions. Maybe I failed as your brother, but you made your choices as well. I’ll be happier when you are gone.”

 

Ivar relaxed a little now. Things had gone back to what was familiar to Ivar and that feeling from before was going away. Ivar had also heard the consensus in Hvitserik’s words and Ivar knew he had agreed to the offer of letting Alfred go if it meant Ivar would leave as well. And yet, Ivar did not move from his chair, and Hvitserik had not told him to go. Ivar looked up and saw that Hvitserik looked just as conflicted as Ivar felt. They both did not know what to do next, and yet they were waiting for something to let them know it was okay to leave the other behind.

 

“I’ll take a crew,” Ivar said suddenly, a plan going into motion in his mind, “A few men on a small boat and go up the coast. Circle this land and see what there is for me.”

 

Hvitserik almost looked relieved, and nodded, “I can give you that. There are a few men who I know don’t want to return home yet, and who don’t want to be farmers. They’ll go with you.”

 

Ivar stood up from the table then, grabbing his crutches and going for the exit. He did not think he’d see Hvitserik again. It felt as if they were no longer brothers, and that division had been made that day at the river when Ivar had almost killed him. This, as so many other things, was Ivar’s fault.

 

“I’ll let him go,” Hvitserik said before Ivar could leave, “You’re right. Whats the fucking point of killing some boy king? Besides, this isn’t my war to win—there isn’t even a war to win, its been over for a long time.”

 

Ivar turned to face him and gave a quiet nod. “Its a good plan.”

 

Hvitserik scoffed, “Its your plan. I won’t have to rely on those anymore after this.”

“No, you won’t.” Ivar agreed.

 

“I won’t say that you are dead. I’ll let Ubbe and the others know what happened. I’ll tell them that you won this war for us.” 

 

And Ivar had never learned to apologize, and maybe Hvitserik hadn’t either. It was like he had said, they had been orphans long before their mother had been killed, and they had learned to raise each other. The princes of Kattegat had never learned to apologize, but Ivar could hear that Hvitserik was trying to now—he was absolving himself from the guilt of the past, he was trying to make right for them failing each other in the past. Ivar knew this, because it was the exact same thing he’d just done for Alfred. 

 

The next day Ivar waited by the fence that surrounded the camp until the sun was setting in the grey sky. He stayed far enough away that he would not be seen, but close enough to see Alfred as he was grabbed and pulled through the front gate of the camp.

Alfred was resisting, but that was mostly because of confusion. They must not have told him what was happening, and Alfred must have been thinking that he was taking to be killed, and being brought to the gate must have been confusing for that narrative. As he was being dragged, Alfred’s eyes scanned the crowd around him, and Ivar liked to think that Alfred was looking for him in the masses. Across the way, Ivar kept his eyes on Alfred, even though he knew he would not be seen. For a moment though, Alfred did turn his head in Ivar’s direction and Ivar really though that he must have been seen.

Something that Ivar could not hear took Alfred’s attention and his head turned away. Ivar followed Alfred’s line of vision to the field outside the camp and to the horses that were cresting the hill. Someone had gotten down from their horse and shouted something, and Ivar could see the silhouette of a dress and a women standing tall beside that hill. 

Ties around Alfred’s hands were cut and he was pushed from the gate. At first he walked slow, thinking this was some sort of trap. Alfred walked nobly like a king, not looking back to his captors as he made his way across the field and over to that hill. He came to stand before the woman on the hill and even though he was very far away, Ivar could tell when that facade of the king fell and Alfred was himself. Alfred reached out and grabbed hold of his mother, who enveloped him in a hug, holding tight. 

Footsteps came towards Ivar and he looked over to see an old man approaching him. He was one of the men who Hvitserik got to agree to join Ivar’s crew to sail around the coast, and he told Ivar that the boat was ready to take sail. 

Ivar looked one last time to the hill, and saw Alfred getting upon a horse to ride away. Ivar turned towards the old man and walked towards the river where the boats would be. He got on board the small vessel that had been arranged for him and the sparse crew. They pushed the boat from the docks and the men took place by the oars to start their course to the sea. 

Ivar stood at the helm beside the carving of a snake and watched the horizon instead of the disappearing coast. Ivar had killed the Cripple, he had killed the Brother, he had killed the Boneless. Ivar now wondered what man he would be next.


	10. Epilogue

10 years later

 

Ivar had taken his meager crew and sailed to a place called Arklow and Wexford. Ivar conquered the people along those costal villages in that land, eventually going more inland towards Kildare, and then Dublin where Ivar decided to remain for sometime, destroying the rule which once reigned there. 

Ivar kept his promise and never went north to Kattegat ever again. After some time, Ivar decided that he never wanted to go back there anyway, and soon found that he couldn’t even imagine living such a life like one in Kattegat would entail. In his first years on his own he made a settlement in Dublin, and what northmen had heard of the accomplishment came over to settle there. Ivar then went more inland towards a place called Kildare and continued to wage war on these native people. He kept going inland until he was far from the sea, far from the coast where he could look across the water and wander what else remained. He kept going forward until everyone knew his name.

A boy who’d come to settle there called Olaf the White, came to help Ivar as he conquered the people who some had taken to calling the Scotts. Olaf was just a boy, nearly at the age Ivar would have been when he first entered the war with the Saxons—he did not crave battle like Ivar did, he’d only heard the stories of Ivar the Boneless that was told in the port of Kattegat and wanted to be a part of that legacy. 

In time Ivar’s original crew left him, and others settled down with families in the places Ivar conquered, but Ivar never thought to do this. He could not think to stop fighting—it was the thing he was best at, and Ivar did not think he knew how to settle down, to start a family, or to love. Olaf remained with Ivar though, and he was the one who told Ivar of the Danes who’d gone into Wessex only to be defeated by a king named Alfred.

Ivar had not thought of Wessex or their king for many years. 

In those first years Ivar had gone off on his own, he found he could keep such thoughts away by fighting and battles. Those early wars Ivar waged had been done so with the intent to make himself forget the young king who Ivar had traded his home for. In his dreams though, Ivar always remembered, and those thoughts he could not escape.

Winning Dublin, Kildare, Wexford, and Arklow did little to make Ivar forget the one war he’d never finished. Ten years later, and Ivar thought he was ready to return to the sea, he was ready to finish what he started.

There were enough people loyal to Ivar that he could now raise an army, though it would never be one like the great Heathen army he once lead. Still, it was enough and Ivar took the men to join with the Danish forces who remained in the outskirts of Wessex and convinced them to let him take lead. His reputation proceeded him now, there was little argument in the matter.

In Wessex it was impossible not to hear news of King Alfred though Ivar never tried to seek it out. The King had two young sons and a daughter, and had married some Mercian woman some time ago. He had opened a court school in Wessex, and was much loved by his people. Some men compared him to the French king Charlemagne. Some men called him Great.

After leading a few skirmishes along the area the Danes occupied, Ivar was ready to lay claim on a formal war. A letter was received from the Crown, calling for a meeting to negotiate terms. Ivar accepted. 

Some Danish commanders and then Olaf came with Ivar to meet with the Saxons. It was early morning, and the place of meeting was one of equal distances between the Danish camp and the borders of Wessex. The air was crisp, the sunlight slowly rising, it reminded Ivar of years long ago.

He told the others to stay a bit behind, and Ivar went ahead up front to meet with the Saxon delegates. As he went up to stand on the hill, he saw the Saxons coming up near the trees. He saw one say something to the others when he saw Ivar standing there, and the others held back as that one came forward, and Ivar saw the king.

He was older now, and looked like a real man, rather than a boy in a crown. He looked taller, stronger, and there was the beginnings of a dark beard on his pale face. He was unmistakeable.

 

“Its really you,” His voice was deeper now too. He walked from his horse to stand across from Ivar. By his tone it was impossible to tell if he was pleased, or stuck in disbelief. “When I heard the accounts of the raids on those villages I thought it might have been…”

“I’ve been away for a while,” Ivar agreed, feeling like he was very much in one of those dreams that used to haunt him, “They call me a king in Dublin.”

 

“I heard.” And there was a half smile on Alfred’s face, as if hearing that news so long ago pleased him. “You’ve come back then to finish the war?”

 

Ivar shrugged looking around the land they stood on, “I never got to claim victory here.”

 

“Yes,” Alfred agreed, his tone just as easy as Ivar’s, “You still have a king to kill.”

Ivar looked at Alfred and it was the first time in a long time that he thought he might smile too, “That I do.”

 

Alfred’s half smile stayed on his face as he nodded, “Well, I know that you’ll certainly try. I suppose there is no point suing for peace?”

 

“Is it really peace that you want?” And Ivar had not challenged someone in this way in so many years, and he supposed that was because it had been just as long since he had a worthy opponent. 

 

“Of course,” Alfred spoke freely, and he seemed more at peace within his body now, and more at peace with the burden of the crown on his head. Ivar understood why other men called Alfred great—he was no longer the boy burdened with the crown of his dead family, with a war he never wanted to fight. Alfred continued speaking, voice confident, though almost wistful, “Think of it, the Danes and the Saxons living under one kingdom in peace. The King of Dublin and Wessex allies. Could you imagine it?”

 

And Ivar thought he recognized that hopeful optimism, and he was glad that no one ever burnt that out of Alfred. He was glad that he had not burnt it out of him. But Ivar shook his head. That was not either of their fates.

 

Alfred grimaced, but did not look surprised at the answer, “No, I could not either.”

 

“A good dream though.” Ivar said before he could think to stop himself.

 

Alfred looked up and smiled, albeit sadly, as if remembering something from long ago that he could no longer have. “Yes, a good dream.”

Ivar would never find peace, though peace was never what he wanted—he could feel it in his blood that this would be his last war that the gods wished him to wage. Whatever he found after it would no longer matter—his fate was determined, Alfred’s though was his own, he was still capable of dreaming.

The others soon joined them on that hill, and Ivar found himself slipping away before the formal war could be waged. He took a horse and went down the hill just as things were coming to a close, and looked one last time at Alfred.

 

“So that is the great king,” Olaf came down the hill beside Ivar, “Is that the same one they say was a prisoner of your brother’s some time ago?”

 

Ivar shrugged, and responded thoughtfully, “No, I do not think it is.”

 

Olaf squinted his eyes as he looked up at the Saxon flags that were held beside the horses. A golden sigil was flapping in the steadily rising wind.

 

“Thats a lion, isn’t it?” Olaf asked, trying to make out the creature displayed on the flag.

 

Ivar had seen those flags many years ago and shook his head, not needing to look back at the hill to remember what the crest was, “A wyvern—some creature in Saxon stories.”

 

Olaf followed Ivar back down the hill, towards the Danish camp, and asked another question about the wyvern, but Ivar’s mind was elsewhere. Before he could get too far away from the hill, and before he lost sight of the flags and the king entirely, Ivar looked back.

King Alfred was ending the talks with the Danes, and Ivar could see those Danish commanders coming down from that hill, leaving Alfred alone. Ivar watched as Alfred kept his eyes on the vikings who’d soon come back to conquer Alfred’s land. The king did not look afraid of war, and Ivar didn’t think that Alfred had ever been afraid of war at all. He thought of how they had once spoken in the rain of such things, back when they were just boys trying to be men, Alfred had said that he’d been afraid of the battle, but Ivar was not certain that the king even new the truth. 

He thought of what Olaf had said about the sigil looking like a lion and Ivar thought that was a better fit anyway. Alfred had always been brave, he’d always had a lion’s heart.


End file.
